


Impermanence

by esama



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Crack, M/M, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Oral Sex, Time Travel, Wish Fulfillment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-05 06:37:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16362800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: In which Desmond ends up back in time and doesn't so muchdecideto use it to deal with some hangups he had about Ezio's life as much as sort of... falls into doing it because of bitterness and spite and some very questionable medicine.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Proofread credit to nimadge.  
> Slight crack

Death looks a lot like the Sanctuary under the Auditore Villa.

That's about as far as Desmond gets before he's being attacked by what looks like Borgia guards, one of whom shouts something along the lines of "Take no prisoners" and, "Leave no survivors!" in Italian. What is going on becomes pretty secondary to the fact that the next thing Desmond knows, someone is coming at him with a _sword_.

He rolls out of the way of the first swing and to his stomach, then puts his weight on his hands and kicks back, swinging his foot until it comes into contact with something. The armoured soldier lets out a surprised yelp and then goes down – Desmond follows him with an elbow to the throat and then grabs the man's sword just in time to catch the one coming at him from the other guard.

What follows happens more or less on automation for Desmond's part. Sword comes at him, he blocks, directs it aside, and kicks the guard in the knee, sending him off balance enough to free his sword and swing it hard against the man's neck, where the armour has enough of a gap for it to get through. There's spurt of blood and croak of alarm and pain and the man goes down – Desmond pulls his sword across the cut he made, making it deeper and killing the man.

Another attacker with a polearm – Desmond almost gets skewered and the blade cuts into the fabric of his hoodie, ripping through it but missing his actual skin. Quickly taking advantage of the near miss, Desmond grabs hold of the polearm by the shaft and tugs – the soldier holds on for too long and falls, graceless, onto his sword.

Desmond finishes the first soldier, choking on the floor after being elbowed in the wind pipe, with a sword through the chest. He's left with three dead men in armour, and with both the realisation that they are dead, bleeding, have weight and smell to them which they shouldn't, and that he is not where he should be and also – he's hearing what sounds a lot like cannon fire battering a fortress.

This, this is the raid of Monteriggioni, when Cesare Borgia attacked the place, killed Mario Auditore, stole the Apple of Eden – and utterly destroyed weeks worth of progress Desmond had made, accumulating funds and swag for Ezio.

This is _also_ not the Grand Temple, nor the non-afterlife of black nothingness that was promised to him by dying Templars and atheist Assassins. This looks and feels a lot like reality. And also like the past.

"Shit," Desmond mutters, looking at his stolen sword – blood stained – and the men on the floors – bleeding, dead. He can hear voices in the distance, shouting, screaming, gunfire. The sanctuary, aside from these three and all the statues of historical Assassins, is empty. Somewhere, the guns keep on battering the walls.

The Borgia, Desmond recalls, didn't look to conquer Monteriggioni – it wasn't occupied afterwards. Shaun had told him, explained how so little of the place was rebuilt after. Usually when enemy conquered a city, town, a fortress, they settled in and occupied and therefore tried to both do minimal damage while doing the actual conquering and then later fix the damage they did. Not Cesare though, he didn't give a shit. He just wanted to destroy the place, and that's why Auditore Villa remained in ruins in 2012 – no one ever rebuilt it.

The Borgia would keep on firing on the town and raiding its buildings until there was no one left alive. And then they would steal all the valuables, set torch to the rest and leave. And Desmond is right in middle of it. He thinks.

Confused, Desmond tests the weight of the sword in his hand and then actually looks at himself. Still wearing white hoodie and jeans, sneakers on his feet. Looks about right. Doesn't look like Ezio though, which is… probably bad? Or good? He has no idea. Ezio is right handed, but Desmond automatically grabbed the sword in his dominant left hand, and there's still a hidden blade on his right arm – on his right…

"The fuck," he mutters, spreading the discoloured fingers a little. He… doesn't really have a word for the colour they are now. It's kind of a lack of colour, really. It doesn't hurt, but it definitely doesn't look normal. "The fuck is going on?"

Shouting coming from behind. "Here, I think they came through here!" a man's voice shouts in Italian. "Maybe we can open the door this way, let our men through! Come on!"

Desmond turns and before he can even think of how to handle it, there are soldiers coming into the sanctuary, coming from the back, behind the statue of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad – and immediately seeing the scene of Desmond standing above three bodies.

"It's the Assassin!"

"Bastard!"

"Flank him, men!"

Desmond reacts automatically, again, going into a guard position and waiting. The Borgia soldiers move to surround him, and then they attack – and it's not quite how it goes in the Animus, they don't come at him one by one, waiting patiently for him to kill one of their men before offering him another. They just come at him, all at once and from all sides. And Desmond doesn't have a smoke bomb or anything.

He swings, catching the first blade on the sword and then lashes out with his right hand at another man coming at him – hidden blade sinks in and then snaps out of a man's shoulder, leaving him dropping his sword. Another man behind him – Desmond manages to just barely duck under the blade, directing the first sword aside and then swinging wildly at the third attacker, sending him back. Another man behind him, trying to thrust a polearm at his back – Desmond spins and grabs it in his right hand. This man is smarter than the one he killed before – he releases the weapon immediately. Desmond sends it into one of the attackers, thrusting it through the man's armour and stomach.

First down, one injured but still standing. Four to go.

It's a messy bit of melee, swords and blades swinging and thrusting, increasingly desperate, and Desmond avoiding being hit by a hair's width. His hoodie gets it, though, with slashes cutting through it from left and right but just barely avoiding hitting skin.

Funny thing though – the soldiers tire around him, their swings turning wilder and wider, but Desmond isn't even out of breath. Considering how useless their armour seems to be, it's seems to be holding them back a lot. Either that, or Desmond is stronger than all of them combined.

Stab through the chest plate kills the second man – blade across the neck kills the third. The fourth hesitates long enough for Desmond to swing his sword across the man's throat – and then, screaming, the fifth one runs.

Desmond hesitates, confused, flexing his fingers around the sword handle. It's weird, how easy this is. He's still not even breathing hard. It reminds him of attacking the Abstergo tower, going through all of those Abstergo guards – not even breaking a sweat over it. Climbing the skyscraper in Manhattan, several hundred of feet of scaffolding, and not being a bit tired. Of spending _days_ in the Animus and not even being hungry after – when he should be _dead of thirst._

Desmond looks at the sword, uneasy. It's not the best sword ever, that's easy to tell. Nothing like the really expensive swords Ezio ended up collecting, high grade steel and all – this thing _sucks_. It already looks dented, the blade chipped by many times he'd hit armour. Around him there are seven bodies now, and the worst he got was a ripped hoodie – which, granted, is a loss, but… some of those men he cut through, armour and all, and it was almost easy.

"What the shit," Desmond mutters, uneasy.

Then hears the escaped guard shouting, "The Assassin, the Assassin is here!"

Putting the confusion aside, Desmond switches the dented sword to a little less damaged one and then chases after the running guard – past the statue of Altaïr, and into the tunnels behind it. They're a little more intact than he remembers – and a lot more full of guards. With strange sense of nostalgia for Templar hideouts and Assassin Tombs, Desmond swings his sword to get a feel for its weight, and then steps forward.

Somewhere, he can hear people shouting, "Run, run, they are coming – break the bridge!" and "Close the gate," and "Ezio!"

Desmond faces against another Borgia soldier and knows, distantly – somewhere in these tunnels, Ezio is leading his people to safety. Claudia and Maria are there. He can almost feel them, pinpricks of light against his consciousness, getting more distant. There are hundreds of innocent civilians in these tunnels, and the Borgia are doggedly following them, seeking to make an example of them. In the town above, they are destroying as much as they can.

Desmond spent _weeks_ renovating Monterigoni, accumulating funds, weapons, paintings, gear. He'd rebuilt shops and stations, he'd made the town _great_. True enough, it was sort of a game mechanic, really, Rebecca's way of condensing literal decades of slow development into few weeks, but it _meant_ something to Desmond. He'd never built anything in his life, and Ezio made him relive the rebuilding of a whole commune.

Desmond kills another guard, sword going through armour again a little bit easier than it really should, and then the way is clear. He could escape, probably. He could maybe follow the path Ezio took. Find him and then… what? Just what?

He's confused, still trying to catch up with what's even going on. He probably should be dead, not here, doing… this, whatever this is. Nothing about this makes sense. And yet all Desmond can think is that he's _still_ a little pissed about how fast the Borgia tore Monteriggioni down.

Switching another ruined sword for a less broken one, Desmond turns and sets out finding where the soldiers are getting through. The way into the sanctuary is blocked, but they're still getting into the tunnels – where?

"This way, men!" another Borgia shouts, as Desmond comes to the foot of a staircase – on the top of it there's an open door and by that, a guard. "Assassin!" the soldier shouts, and Desmond takes the stairs, three at a time, and runs his sword through the man.

There are more soldiers outside, but by now Desmond is feeling weirdly, frighteningly invulnerable. He's stronger than he should be, somehow, faster too – these people, these _humans_ in their armour can't keep up with him. He runs into the throng of them, slashing at them with his sword, knocking weapons off their hands and kicking their feet from under them, just letting loose with all he's learned from three different Assassins, using all of it and then –

And then there is a crack like a cannon going off, but it sounds like it happens right in his ear. There's a feel of impact and then, _pain,_  hot and searing, on the side of his waist. Desmond looks down and sees red begin to spread to the ragged cloth of his torn hoodie.

The realisation is almost clinical. He's been shot. Would you look at that.

Then someone is thrusting a spear at him, and Desmond has to act fast or get skewered. Clasping a hand over the gushing wound, he twists away, tugs at the spear coming at him and sends it into the gut of another soldier. Everything goes sort of blurry around the edges and Desmond acts on instinct – blocking attacks and following through increasingly brutal counterattacks. World grows sort of hot, weirdly. Or cold. It might be the blood loss.

Eventually, there are no more blades coming at him – and he's once more surrounded by corpses.

Desmond drops the sword and looks down at his side. Still bleeding, the side of his waist is completely red now. So, whatever is going on, he's not actually superhuman, or acquired magical healing abilities. Good to know.

He's going to be sick, he decides – and then promptly is, just barely managing to avoid hurling on top of number of dead guards. World tilts a little to the side and Desmond takes support from nearby wall, leaving bloody handprints on it and holding on until everything is little more solid. He's leaning onto the hidden doorway the Borgia soldiers had been using to get into the tunnels.

Weary, he closes it, locks it, and then turns away. World sort of condenses around him, the edges of his vision going a little dark. Everything becomes simple with need.

First, something to bandage himself with before he bleeds out.

Second, maybe something other to wear than just cotton blend.

Switching yet another ruined sword for one that has at least a straight blade, Desmond grunts and sets out searching.

He's in the armoury, and it's already been ransacked – tables have been knocked over and armour stands lie on the floor, empty. Everything's already been taken. The weapon gallery is the same, all the weapon stands sit empty, if they hadn't been taken away wholesale. The Borgia soldiers are either snatching up loot for themselves or are under orders to get all valuable things out before setting the place on fire. Who knows.

It pisses Desmond off a little. How much money had he put into this place again? Thousands and thousands of florins and now it's just being looted. Bastards, the lot of them.

Priorities. Stop bleeding first, be mad next. Where do they keep their medical supplies here?

Ezio's room, probably – the guy is an Assassin, he's gotta have stuff to patch himself up after missions gone bad. And he has other stuff there too, important stuff. Valuable stuff. Another thing which had frustrated Desmond to no end, he'd been forced to leave just about all of it behind when the place had been attacked. Borgia had taken just _everything_ from the guy, geez.

Desmond limps out of the weapon gallery, puts his blade into the back of a soldier in the entrance hall, and then makes his way up the stairs and to the second level. The walls have already been emptied of paintings, it looks like – another thing to be annoyed with. Desmond clicks his tongue and sways a little, and then makes his way to Ezio's room.

First thing he sees is a bathtub. It's just… sitting there, full of water, and despite the fact that side of the room has been torn open by a cannonball, it hasn't even spilled. Ezio's bathwater from the night before.

Desmond stares at the thing for a long moment in sort of blank faced confusion, remembering the feel of sitting in the water when it was hot – remembering the feel of Caterina Sforza's hands sliding across his wet chest and – yeah okay, really not the time.

The room is a mess, tables and shelves tipped over from where the cannon ball had struck the place – if there's medical stuff in the place, Desmond can't see it. What he can see though are the bedspreads which could do for bandages if he tore them, maybe and – oh.

Ezio's gear.

The chest piece of Altaïr's Armour is lying on the floor, half under a broken bookshelf. The greaves and spaulders are right next to it – and there, under the broken table, Ezio's second hidden blade. And, best of all, Ezio's belt – with all of his pouches.

Which might include his medicine pouch.

Desmond hurries over to the belt and collapses on his knees, opening pouches hurriedly. Smoke bombs, poison, throwing knives – there. First aid kit. It includes bandages, needles, catgut, and suspicious looking bottles which, when Desmond opens them to smell them, smell a lot like alcohol. Is that Ezio's _medicine_ then? Hard alcohol? The guy does his thing on power of liquid courage.

What a man.

Desmond hesitates for a moment and then shrugs fatalistically and uncorks one of the bottles, chugging it down. Whatever the stuff is, it's _strong_ , burning it's way down his throat and settling in his belly like a hot coal, making him shudder slightly. Probably shouldn't have drank that, in hindsight – renaissance medicine includes lead and leeches and probably fucking mercury too. Which his luck, he just drank some lovely absinthe strengthened with arsenic and cyanide and opium for a good measure. Shit.

What the fuck is he even doing?

He can still hear the crack of cannons in the distance, and the floor under him shakes slightly – a cannon ball hit somewhere near the villa. Desmond winces and glances outside through the open part of the wall. The Borgia have their soldiers all over the town by now, and Ezio has gotten most of the civilians away probably, there's no one left to _attack_ but the Borgia's own people… and they're still bombing the place. What fucking douches.

Throwing the empty bottle away, Desmond takes off his torn hoodie and then his shirt too, checking his side. The wound looks relatively clean, gushing blood as it is – the bullet cut a groove through the side, but it doesn't look too deep or like it hit organs or anything. It's bleeding a lot, though. He probably should've passed out by now.

The _medicine_ of Ezio's is working already though – whether it's like placebo or really just him getting very quickly drunk or high or _poisoned_ , Desmond already feels a little better. The pain doesn't feel so bad, now, and he's no longer swaying, his vision isn't bleary anymore. Breathing in and out to calm his suddenly racing heart – seriously, Ezio's medicine was some strong stuff – Desmond reaches for the bandages and starts wrapping the mess of his side up.

Oh, boy, there was definitely _something_ in Ezio's medicine, _holy shit_ – he's feeling it, he's definitely feeling it now.

Desmond lets out a little giggle and then presses his forehead to the floor for a moment, just grinning like a high lunatic. A chorus of _what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck_ is ringing in his head and for a moment time sort of – bleeds out as the high of whatever he just drank hits him, way, way too fast considering that he _drank it._  How the hell is it even affecting him this fast? Or – or is he so high that he's losing time, or –

Sounds, voices. Footsteps. "I'll check over here!" someone shouts and Desmond lifts his head, leaning his weight on one hand. Another soldier, coming towards Ezio's room.

Desmond reaches for the pouch of throwing knifes and when the man steps into the room, Desmond throws the knife at him, watching blearily how the man bows into the knife imbedded hilt-deep in his armour. Then, with a grunt, the man collapses over, and stays still.

Time to get a move on. And this time he's getting his _shit_ back.

With another weird, giddy giggle Desmond reaches for the Armour of Altaïr, and starts pulling it on. It's both heavier and lighter than he expected, the thick black robe with its many layers. The armour fits over it like a glove, easily fitting just right, settling over him like it was made for him. It feels just as epic as he thought.

Grinning like an idiot and feeling just so damn happy to have the thing back – ignoring the fact that he never had it before in the first place – Desmond pulls on the greaves over his jeans – a bit weird, but Ezio grabbed his trousers or… his hose? Whatever they're called in this time, Ezio took them when he ran, along with his boots. So, jeans and sneakers it is for Desmond. Ezio's second hidden blade fits over his left arm like a glove, and with even wider grin, Desmond finishes by wrapping the silk sash and the belt around his waist, tightening the belts with finality.

He even has Sword of Altaïr back, hell yes.

For a moment Desmond stands there, feeling a sort of drunken satisfaction over the whole thing. Everything he spent what feels like quarter of his life gaining, everything he lost when Cesare Borgia attacked is back. Fuck yeah.  He even has Ezio's money pouch now. Which…

Doesn't seem heavy enough to hold all the over fifty thousand florins he had by the time of Monteriggioni's destruction, actually. Frowning, Desmond grabs the pouch and checks it. Yeah, it definitely doesn't have fifty thousand florins in it.

He wants his fifty thousand florins back.

Now, if he was Ezio, where would he keep fifty thousand florins?

Desmond sways for a moment, hand resting on his side, which now that it's bandaged, under robe, sash and armour, doesn't feel so bad. Then he recalls, distantly, Claudia telling him – telling Ezio – that if he didn't come to empty the villa coffers and take money to the bank, she'd skim off the top. Bank. Monteriggioni had a bank. The money would be at the bank.

With that figured out, Desmond turns to the torn open side of the villa, and decides he's going to the bank.

It takes effort not to fall face flat out of the window and into the front yard – he manages to land on his feet and oh boy, Ezio's medicine is _good_ but it's not defeat-the-gravity-good. "Ow fuck," Desmond groans, leaning his weight onto his hand and breathing through the sting – and then he's surrounded by soldiers.

"Assassin!" they shout. "Get him, kill him!"

With a grunt Desmond gets up and let's his now two hidden blades shriek out. He has bank to get to and enemies between him and it.

Back to work it is.


	2. Chapter 2

Desmond wakes up feeling like he hasn't since being kidnapped by Abstergo – severely and unmistakably hungover.

He's also, for some reason, sleeping sitting up, and his neck aches like hell – when he lifts his head, it cracks so loud he can _taste_ the sound. It tastes a bit like metal. What the hell, did he somehow… fall asleep in the Animus? Can you fall asleep while basically already being asleep?

Groaning, Desmond lifts a hand to rub at his neck and then stops. He's wearing a hood. With that realisation come other things. He's sitting on something hard. Behind him there's stone work, he can feel its cold against his back, seeping his body warmth through the robes and armour he's wearing. Also, he's wearing robes and armour. Like some sort of medieval assassin. What the hell.

Blinking blearily against the glare of light coming through what turns out to be the broken window of a rundown little hut, Desmond stares at nothing in particular for a moment. There's hay on the floor. The floor is dirt. The walls are adobe, propped up by wooden struts. He's sitting in – in a fireplace. He's sitting in a fireplace. He's _sitting in a fireplace._

"What the actual hell?" Desmond groans – and then nearly bangs his head onto the inside of the mantelpiece of the fireplace, because he's actually really sitting inside a fireplace. And not only is he sitting in a fireplace, he's sitting on _top_ of something set in the fireplace and what the _fuck_ is even –

Groaning, Desmond ducks his head to crawl out of the fireplace and then he feels it. First, cutting pain on his side. Then, the nausea of the re-awakening sensation of being _extremely hungover_. Covering his mouth with his hand, he swallows and breathes through the welling of sickness and tilts his head to an angle where it doesn't feel like it's about to blow up – it takes a moment, but the danger passes. He is not going to throw up.

He's also starting to remember what the hell is going on. It comes in fits and starts like Bleeding Effect that has some loading issues – Monteriggioni, fighting, a lot of swords for some reason, a lot of men with swords, Armour of Altair – which is what he's wearing right now, _nice_ – and then his quest for the bank.

Swallowing again, Desmond tilts his head and looks down.

He's sitting on a chest.

He knows, even though he doesn't remember it all too well, that the chest is full of money. Because he kind of… robbed a bank. The bank had been on fire, granted, and no one had actually been staffing it, probably due to the said fire, but considering how many people were guarding the place and how many he killed on his way, it's probably safe to say he robbed the bank. A burning bank. Like some sort of drunk lunatic.

Well technically in a roundabout way it wasn't really robbery, was it – it was his money. Sort of. He just reclaimed it.

"Ow, fuck," Desmond grunts and slides down from the chest, crawling out of the fireplace – what the hell is he doing in a fireplace anyway…? It kind of looks like the most secure part of the hut, granted, the whole thing is sort of lopsided and falling over, the ceiling is sagging toward him with a visible angle in the middle, so maybe for Drunk Desmond it made sense to crawl into the fireplace, it being stone and all, but…

Ugh, he is not going to even try and make sense of Drunk Desmond's actions. The guy is an idiot.

Stumbling a little, Desmond gets to his feet and then has to hug the fireplace for support as his head spins with sudden vertigo. Okay, loss of freedoms and all that that came with being kidnapped aside, he has not missed the side effects of his actions. Namely hangover. Bleeding Effect was a bitch, but it usually passed within few seconds. Hangover is for forever.

What the _fuck_ is in Ezio's medicine, because Jesus fucking Christ it feels like he's dunked his head in barrel of wine and left it to ferment or something, _goddamn._  Fuck, he needs something to drink. Something non-alcoholic. Preferably poisonous. Ugh.

With somewhat unsteady feet, Desmond heads to the open doorway of the hut and peers out into the hellish light of early morning sun. Italian countryside, in all of its beautiful glory, with serene fields and cypress trees and a familiar fortress, with pillars of smoke rising from it. Monteriggioni, still slightly on fire.

Leaning onto the doorway, Desmond tugs at the dark hood to pull the beak better over his eyes and shield him from the accursed sun. Somehow he's put a some considerable distance between himself and the fortress – enough so that he can see the size of the army parked outside the city. Cesare Borgia went all out on Ezio, huh? Lines of cannons are still standing there at the ready and there actual _siege towers_ in place, despite the fact that somehow they got the town gates open pretty much immediately. Monteriggioni is tiny, and from what Desmond remembers, there were at least twenty to thirty cannons battering away at it, and he can see _four siege towers._

When the hell did they even have the time to build siege towers, that shit isn't something you can just… haul around the countryside. They had to build them nearby, somehow, and all within the day. Or night. What the shit.

Might be one of those weird quirks of the Animus, how it condensed time. Maybe the attack on Monteriggioni didn't happen overnight, but was something that took a few days, or likely few weeks. Or maybe Cesare Borgia has a wizard in his employ.

Desmond leans his temple against the door frame and tries to count the number of troops parked around the town. Christ, there's a lot. He killed… who even knows how many last night, but there's probably thousands of men out there. Talk about fucking overkill.

Well, Cesare did attack Forli too, didn't he, or… was about to attack Forli? Maybe Monteriggioni was somehow in the way… Squinting at the army, Desmond tries to remember his geography. Yeah, it kind of sort of makes sense – but also going from Monteriggioni to Forli would put Florence in the way of the Papal Armies, and doesn't that sound like fun times for everyone, Cesare marching up to the Medici's doorsteps?

Desmond sighs, rubbing at his forehead. It's a lot of army out there, either way. Geez. Guess he's lucky that Drunk Desmond decided on robbery, rather than fighting a war single-handedly, huh?

Ducking out of the light and back into the hut, Desmond turns to look at the fireplace. The chest is still sitting there, where someone might make a fire. Looking at the thing from the door, the fireplace sort of… does look kind of inviting. In a real estate for a dragon looking for a place to turn into lair for their hoard sort of way.

Giving into the inevitable, Desmond heads back in to check what he actually managed to loot during his high and drunken shenanigans. Sighing, he kneels down and pulls the chest out of the fireplace – seriously – and opens it. It's full to the brim. With a… really ludicrous amount of money, it turns out. Most of it is silver coins, with some gold coins here and there but overall, it's… just a lot of coin.

For a moment Desmond just sits there, thinking things through as well as he can with his head pounding. He's wearing the Armour of Altaïr – still nice. He has sword strapped to his side, the Sword of Altaïr – also nice. Hidden blade on both hands, one of them his own, the other Ezio's secondary blade. He also has Ezio's belt and pounces with all the goodies therein. Also kind of nice. Kind of terrifying too.

He'd woken up in the sanctuary under Monteriggioni during the Borgia raid on it. And then got hurt. And drunk. Possibly high. As you do.

Desmond breathes in and out and then gingerly tests his side, squirming his fingers under the robes and then under the belt. The bandage is still in place and putting any pressure on the wound hurts like hell, but the bandage feels dry, and under it his skin doesn't feel particularly hot. He's never been very infection prone guy, granted, but it's still a relief to feel that the skin isn't even particularly swollen or anything. Getting an infection in the Renaissance just doesn't seem like it's particularly good for your health.

Which, considering that he's supposed to be dead, is kind of weird thing to be worried about. Also in the future. He should be dead and in the future. Not alive and in the past.

"Fucking Precursor bullshit," Desmond pronounces with a sigh and then tries to decide what to do next. Going back to Monteriggioni seems like bad time, considering the army parked around it and probably in it. The place is on fire anyway, and according to Shaun it would be abandoned for decades after this. As much as he loves the place, it's bit of a death trap now, isn't it?

Also, he's… kind of sort of robbed Ezio here. Robbed the people who would've robbed Ezio. While high on Ezio's stuff. So really it's all Ezio's fault, isn't it?

"Shit," Desmond mutters and takes a moment to just breathe in and out.

Ezio would be heading to Rome now, to restart everything from the ground up. How successful he'd be at it, Desmond isn't entirely sure – Shaun and Rebecca did a lot of weird stuff with those memories, because they were all going a bit stir crazy in Monteriggioni and Shaun had some weird wish fulfilment stuff he wanted to do which he somehow got Lucy to sign up on and Rebecca to code – which is how Desmond ended up owning most of Rome in Ezio's memories, something he's _pretty sure_ didn't happen in real life. It makes it bit difficult to gauge how well Ezio really did, rebuilding the brotherhood. Decently enough, doubtless, but him owning the Coliseum probably didn't happen. Probably.

Desmond leans his head back for a moment. His head is pounding and his spine feels like rusting wrought iron and he kinda wants to stick his head back into the metaphorical wine barrel and drown.

He gets up instead, closes and locks the chest of stolen – _reclaimed_ – money, and then hauls it up and onto his shoulder with a grunt, standing up. It weighs a _lot,_ but Drunk Desmond went through who knows what to steal it, and it is technically his money now, so no way in hell is he leaving it here for the Borgia to find.

So, off to Rome he goes.

Hauling a small citadel's worth of monetary loot on his shoulder.

And nursing a mother of all hangovers.

_Joy._

* * *

 

The countryside is in a bit of a turmoil, it turns out. That's just what happens when you displace whole community's worth of people and insert a whole army into the normal everyday run of the things – things just get messy. There are streams of refugees from Monteriggioni just wandering around aimlessly, or worse, being harassed by wandering Borgia soldiers. Some mounted soldiers, it seems, have taken incentive to deal away with stragglers and that's just not on.

"Oi," Desmond shouts to the first mounted guard he sees basically bullying couple of women – prostitutes from Monteriggioni, it looks like. "Big man, picking on unarmed women, why don't you come here and try that on me?"

"Assassin!" the soldier shouts and then the women spot Desmond.

"Ser Ezio!"

Desmond ignores the women in favour of grabbing a throwing knife from his belt – when the mounted soldier turns to stampede right over him, he winds this arm back and throws.

The knife ends up imbedded hilt deep in the soldier's chest. The horse rears in alarm as its rider starts to fall, still gripping onto the reins – Desmond just barely manages to step in the horse's way and grab at it before it can gallop off.

"Oh, beautifully done!" one of the women shouts.

"Take that, you bastard!" the other says and goes to kick at the dead man. "That's what you get for messing with those under Auditore protection!"

"We thought you'd ridden ahead, Ser Ezio," the first woman says and then takes another look of Desmond. "Wait…"

"Not Ezio," Desmond says apologetically while trying to calm the horse down. "Though I'm happy to help anyway. You two alright?"

The women exchange looks, frowning. "We've lost our home to those bastards, of course we aren't alright. But we're not hurt, thanks to you," one of them says. "Bit more and… ugh. But who are you, why help us?"

"Basic decency, really," Desmond admits and considers the horse. "Armoured men bullying unarmoured people is just not nice." And he could use a horse, really. Now question is, could the horse carry him and the chest?

"Well, we're grateful, stranger, but – why are you wearing…" the woman asks and then trails off, frowning.

… nope, the answer is very clear no, the horse can't carry them both, it can't even carry just the chest, Desmond finds when he goes to test the chest's weight in the horse's back and at the slightest application of its weight the animal lets out a terrified neigh and immediately tries to escape from under its apparently literal back-breaking weight. Desmond hauls the chest back to his shoulder and sighs. Looks like he'll need a cart at least, then.

"Um," one of the courtesans says, looking worried while another inches to the downed soldier and crouches to check his belt for loot.

Desmond considers them and then tugs at the horse's reins, turning it towards them. "Would you two ladies like a horse?" he offers. "Looks like I'm walking for now."

"I – guess? But who are you – are you from Monteriggioni?"

"I'm from thereabouts," Desmond says vaguely and goes to get his throwing knife back. "And I really gotta be moving on before more of the Borgia's soldiers come around, so – hope you enjoy the horse –"

"Wait, what – where are you going?"

"Rome," Desmond says, hands the reigns to the nearest woman, and then turns to continue down the road, hand on the chest to hold it on his shoulder, trying not to wonder how much in total it might weigh, since a horse couldn't carry it. Probably a lot more than he thinks. Much, _much_ more.

Fucking Precursor bullshit.

* * *

 

The women end up following him, and they're not the only ones. Desmond ends up saving a small family from chasing Borgia soldiers and then a random gaggle of people from more of them – by the time he runs into a group of Monteriggioni mercenaries being routed to by even more soldiers, Desmond has a goddamn caravan following him. And they refuse to leave.

"You shouldn't follow me, I have no idea where I'm going," he keeps telling them.

"You are going to Rome," one of them says with determination and trust. "You are going to Ser Ezio, no?"

"... Yes, but to be frankly honest, I was kind of hoping to make the trip alone."

"We're safer in groups," the courtesans say from top of the horse he'd given them. "Together we can defend each other from the Borgia!"

Except they're not doing anything, really, Desmond's really doing all the fighting while everyone's just staying back, which he feels is kind of the point of the whole thing for them, docking to him for protection. Well, he's not sure he can actually blame them – they are mostly unarmed civilians who just got thrown out of their homes by hostile attacking force. What can they do against armed and armoured soldiers? Judging by the bodies already littering the countryside, not much.

He really wasn't thinking of making the trip to Rome in such a huge company though. There is no way to be secretive about a whole caravan of refugees. He's sympathetic, and shares their furious grief over Monteriggioni, of course, but… yeah.

It's almost relief to see the mercenaries – who, though outmatched, are putting up a fight against their Borgia attackers. It's obviously a losing fight, but hey, at least it's a fight this time and not a precursor to an outright massacre.

"It's the Auditore, it's the Assassin!" one of the Borgia's men shouts when they finally spot him. Couple of the soldiers turn to him, spears and polearms at the ready, already charging. "Kill him and we'll get a great reward!"

Well, that explains things, Cesare must've put a bounty in Ezio's head. Whatever. There's four men coming at him and four more attacking the mercenaries. Time to get back to work.

With a slight grunt, Desmond throws the chest he's  carrying at the nearest man, to a rather satisfying effect. While the man goes down with a very short lived scream, Desmond pulls out the Sword of Altaïr and swings it hard at the second man, sending his head clean off. The next man meets him sword to sword and then stops, shaken by the weight of the impact – then Desmond's hidden blade sinks into his gut and he's done for. The fourth man hesitates a second too long and gets the Sword of Altaïr to his gut as well.

The last four soldiers are rounded up easily enough – or rather, while they're busy with the mercenaries, Desmond walks behind them and sticks his hidden blades into their backs, one by one.

"Oh, well done," one of the mercenaries says.

"Still turns my stomach, how you people can just walk up to a man and stick a blade in their back – but I'm not complaining," another says, wiping at his brow. "That could have gone badly."

"We thought you'd already left, Ser Ezio," a third comments and then actually looks at him, frowning confusedly, probably at the lack of a beard.

"I'm not Ezio," Desmond says, going to check the man under the money chest. Crushed to death, it looks like. Sheesh, that's a gruesome way to go, he thinks and then lifts the chest up again. It's impressed a ninety degree angle into the man's chest plate, probably crushing his lungs, definitely breaking his ribs. "Sorry, man," Desmond says with a sympathetic wince and hoists the chest to his shoulder again.

Around him, the people of the caravan are looting the Borgia men, taking their weapons and armour and everything else that's valuable.

"We are going to Rome, following Ser Ezio," one or the courtesans says to the mercenaries. "Are you going to join us?"

"Certainly – but who is that? Another Assassin?"

"You don't know who that is?" one of the civilians Desmond rescued before asks incredulously. "You _really_ don't know who that is?"

"I mean, of course I know who that is," the Mercenary backtracks quickly. "I was just confused by the robe, that's all. Of _course_ I know him."

"Well, I certainly hope you do. I mean, what kind of rock would you have to be living under to not know _him_?"

Desmond snorts at them. "Neither of you have any idea who I am," he says flatly, rubbing at his temple, which is still aching. "And you really shouldn't be following me," he adds and then brightens up a bit as a thought occurs. "You really shouldn't. Didn't your parents ever teach you not to follow strangers? You really should go home." Oh, wait...

Everyone looks a bit alarmed now. "So sorry, sir," the civilian says miserably. "Won't happen again."

"Oh course we'll follow you, sir," the mercenaries say quickly. "Of course, just lead the way and we'll follow."

"For fucks sake…"

* * *

 

Having the caravan means feeding the caravan. Thankfully, Desmond has the money for it. Not so thankfully, it turns out that he has no fucking clue about the worth of the said money.

He – and by conjunction the caravan – roll into a small farming village by the time it starts getting dark and prices to alarm the hell out of the people there. The locals come out nervously, clutching torches against the night, some of them holding pointy farming implements not so surreptitiously while the village leaders comes out to meet Desmond.

"We're not here to raid or loot or pillage," Desmond promises wearily. "But this lot could use food if you have any to spare. I can pay for it." And he really could use a drink.

"You – you can?" the villagers asks dubiously, looking at the ragtag bunch of mercenaries, courtesans and random Monteriggioni citizens – all of whom probably look like thieves to the man. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to see some proof."

In answer Desmond drops the chest and opens it. The silence that falls at the sight of it is rather marked. And alarmed. Actually it borders in _horrified._

"Lord in heaven," one of the mercenaries whispers.

"Oh," the villagers say, their eyes widening. "Oh my."

"Oh _fuck_ me," one of the courtesan sighs.

Desmond clears his throat. "So, do you think I have enough to buy some food for this lot?" he asks wryly, casting a slight look at the caravan. It is impressive, yeah, but… that impressive?

"Ahem, yes, of course," the villager leader says and sizes him up. "Let's say handful of coins and –"

"Are you _insane_?" courtesans all but screech.

"You must think him an idiot!" the mercenaries shout. "How dare you disrespect him like this?!"

"You people are mad!"

It devolves into the most shouty bit of haggling Desmond has ever experienced which, he decides after moment of listening, works just fine by him. Apparently he has no idea about how money works in Renaissance Italy – he would've just thrown a handful of florins at the villagers and been done with it, but apparently that's just not how it goes.

There's some fifty people in his caravan – and they shout the price of food down to three florins and four lire, which in comparison to the money in the chest seems like pitiful sum of money – but the villagers agree to it and the caravan seems satisfied with it, so who is Desmond to argue. Somehow seven coins is enough not only to feed everyone right there and then, but also to equip them with provisions for the rest of the journey – and the villagers throw in a small cask of wine for a good measure.

Not bad at all.

Of course, once night starts to fall and everyone on the caravan is happily getting drunk on the wine, the villagers try to run off with the chest, but that was pretty much given, all things considered – and since they can't even make the thing budge, it's more amusing and pitiful than anything.

"Please," Desmond says, coming behind the thieves with a goblet of wine in one hand. The thieving villagers whirl around and Desmond grins. "Let me help you with that."

He crouches and lifts the chest with one hand, lifting it up and to his shoulder. While the men gawk at him horror, Desmond measures the villagers up with his eyes and when one of them decides to grab a knife and try and stab him, he drops the chest on him.

The noise is even more gruesome than the actual visual.

Desmond takes a drink of his wine and eyes the rest of the thieves as they stare, white faced, at the broken body and the pool of blood slowly spreading around the chest of treasure. "Anyone else wanna try?" Desmond asks blandly. "I can give you a hand, it's really no problem, please. It would be my pleasure."

The caravan is very carefully left alone after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #money solves all your problems
> 
> Also, single florin is worth like 140 to 1000 dollars in purchasing power, apparently. So. Yeah. Also they didn't have like single solid coinage like we're used to - in Florence they also had lire, soldi, dinari, etc, which are all silver coins and more commonly used than florins because holy hell, florin is a lotta money. And then other states had their own coinage, etc etc.


	3. Chapter 3

It's a long way to Rome. It's even longer when you do it on foot, in ever increasing company, and don't have the benefit of Animus cutting days neatly into seconds. It's days on the road. A lot can happen in days.

They get attacked couple of times. A random family from the countryside joins them for apparently no better reason than that they're going somewhere. One of the horses founders. There's a thunderstorm that drenches them all in the middle of the night and makes Desmond feel a bit like doing a little prayer of gratitude for Altaïr – while everyone else gets soaked to the bone, he keeps dry because the robes are _waterproof_. People in the caravan send him some nasty looks after, and there are mumblings about purchasing tents, carts, maybe even wagons – the sort with canopy.

And Desmond is the only one with money. These days, he spends nights _sitting_ on the said money.

"I didn't make you follow me," he tells them flatly and sits very pointedly down on top of the chest, crossing one leg over another. The thing is not opening without his say so. "I didn't tell you to come here and get stranded without funds or supplies. You did that all on your own. I'm already feeding and watering you, which really is more than I should be doing considering that I don't want you to follow me in the first place."

"Yes, but… we're…" they flail awkwardly, exchanging looks, giving him some glances – giving the chest some longer and more meaningful glances. "We're… your people?" they offer.

Desmond narrows his eyes. "I don't recall you paying me taxes," he says flatly. "So far all you've been doing is mooching off me."

"We _will_ pay taxes once we have some to pay?"

"In Rome, a papal city, where you're probably going to be paying taxes to the church, if you don't just get thrown out for being, you know, refugees from a settlement the papal forces destroyed, you know, Monteriggioni, _enemy of their state_ … in Rome _you're_ going to pay _me_ taxes?" Desmond says and waits a beat as everyone hesitates. "Yeah, I don't think that's how it works."

"We'll… pay you back?" they offer cautiously, giving him wincing and not very convincing smiles. Desmond arches a brow and they try again, in more earnest tones of voice. "We will pay you back, we _swear_ it."

"Hmm," Desmond answers dubiously. "Sure that's a promise you wanna make?" he asks. "Because I'm done doing stuff for free for anybody. And you know what's gonna happen if you _don't_ pay me back?"

There's some more awkward glances at the money chest – the bottom of which now has a sort of black-brown tint to it. Someone clears their throat awkwardly. Yeah, they have no idea what's going to happen – which would mainly be that he'd happily walk away and forget they ever existed, brushing his hands off them without second thought. Still, no one argues and everyone is looking at him with a sort of resigned hopeful expectation of people doomed to their fate and waiting for judgement.

Christ. "Alright, damn," Desmond says and stands up. "Fine. Carts, clothes, tents. Anything else?"

"Bit of spending money wouldn't go amiss?" one of the courtesans asks hopefully.

"Don't push your luck."

So they get carts, they get tents and though getting everyone new clothes is a bit of a stretch, they manage to find a weaver in a small sideway village who happily sells them spools of fabric, which includes enough wool to make a lot of them brand new and mostly waterproof cloaks.

The complaining doesn't stop there, but at least they don't give him the stink eye anymore – and one of the courtesans is actually pretty skilled seamstress on the side, and as they move, now on carts rather than mostly on foot, she happily teaches what she knows to the others. "Who knows, maybe in Rome we can be actual seamstresses. Wouldn't that be something?"

"Yeah, and we'll buy the Coliseum and turn it into a workshop for our clothier business while we're at it," another woman laughs.

"It could happen," the other woman says.

"Sure it could."

Desmond says nothing, walking past them with a sigh. Well, at least they have something to do now, something other than give him weird looks. Granted, they are still giving him weird looks, but that's probably because he's still carrying the damn chest on his shoulder – it turned out that the chest was too heavy even for carts. He tried it, and they ended up with a very broken cart. He really needs to figure out how to weigh the damn chest because damn, it's getting ridiculous. And they've only spent a handful of coins so far. _Ridiculous_.

He has a feeling that he did more than just rob Monteriggioni's bank while high. It's just… Desmond's starting to realise that it is a bit of a ludicrous amount of money for the bank of such a small commune. Granted, not all of the money in the chest is gold, most of its silver, and thus a lot less valuable, but still… it's a lot of money he's carrying.

"You could break it apart into smaller sums, I'm sure the carts could carry it then," one of the people of the caravan suggests. "We could watch over them for you."

"I could start sowing it on the side of the road too, to lighten the load," Desmond says. "Would probably have the same effect."

"Don't you trust us?"

"Not as far as I can throw you, no."

There's a moment of pointed silence, with people sizing him up, considering the chest and obviously making some mental calculations.

"If we want an actual measurement, I volunteer to be thrown," one of the courtesans says quickly, smiling sweetly at Desmond. "It would be my pleasure."

Desmond sighs. He'd probably end up breaking her legs or something. "Just forget it. I'm carrying the chest – see me carrying the chest? I'm gonna keep carrying it and that's that."

At this point getting the damn chest to Rome is becoming a point of pride for him. He started this trip carrying the thing, he can damn well carry it all the way while he's at it.

They're almost there now anyway. Just a day or two to go. What could go wrong?

"I am very curious though," the courtesan says. "How far could you throw a person? How much can you lift? You're obviously _very_ strong, but _how_ strong, really?"

"Honestly, not something I've measured," Desmond admits.

"Maybe you should. We girls could get on top of the chest and once your stop being able to lift it –"

And then he'd end up having to carry them too, hah. No. "Yeah, forget it."

"Could you carry another chest on your other shoulder? Or maybe on top of the one you're already carrying? Or maybe…"

Desmond sighs and waits, glancing around. Any moment now. Come on. He thought the thing, something should go wrong already. Aaany moment now...

A lot can happen in a couple of days. He can end up as the sort of de facto lord of sort of people of Monteriggioni, sure thing, why not. He's carrying God only knows how much money on him, and it's not actually breaking his back even though it really should and that makes a lot less sense than the whole caravan thing, really. Then there is his hand too. He's trying not to think about the hand too much, but it's there. It's probably going to come back to bite him in the ass sooner or later, anyway, so why worry?

Honestly, he's resigned to the eventuality of shit just going down by now. It's just how things have been going so far. So something should, just, happen. Sudden and unexpected run in with Maria and Claudia Auditore, maybe, since they're heading to Rome too. Or maybe the caravan would end up running into Ezio himself, finding the man collapsed on the road wherever he did collapse before being hauled the last miles to Rome to get finally patched up. Or, who knows, maybe the caravan would run into Rodrigo fucking Borgia, why not.

It would be just his luck wouldn't it?

"Does your strength translate to stamina also?" the courtesan asks very meaningfully.

Desmond closes his eyes. Any moment now…

Except nothing of that happens. The day is peaceful and nothing happens. So is the following day, until they just make it to Rome where Desmond bribes the guards at the gates to let them in, and, just like that… they're in.

It's almost a letdown.

* * *

 

He parks the caravan in the first empty bit of ruins they come across and then sits down to have a think.

There's about seventy people in the caravan now. Some of them are mercenaries, some are courtesans, most are just random civilians who lived in Monteriggioni or who got picked up along the way. One is a seamstress and another is a blacksmith. He has no idea what to do with any of them. He could just ditch them now that they're in Rome, but…

They're all looking to him for guidance for some goddamn reason. After all the days of traveling, it's starting to have an unfortunate effect on him. Like maybe he should…

No, he didn't ask them to follow him and he is not taking responsibility of them.

"Alright," he says, setting the chest down. "Time to figure out what you guys wanna do from here on out. You can't keep following me either way."

"But – what are we supposed to do?"

"That's so not something I'm going to decide for you," Desmond says and sits in the chest. "Settle down, raise family, find a job – find Ezio and become Assassins under him. I don't know and I don't care. You're free people, choose for yourselves."

Some exchanged looks. "But how are we supposed to do that, we don't even have any money –"

"Tough," Desmond says flatly, giving them a look. They look back, helpless and hopeless and – ugh. "Alright, fine. You have a day to figure out a damn good reason why I should give you a loan, but that's it, that's the end of this. One day."

"What are you going to do?" one of the courtesans asks, looking at him expectantly. "Where are you going to go?"

Desmond looks down at the chest he's sitting on. "I'm going to find Ezio and throw some money at him," he says. "Obviously."

That earns him some alarmed looks.

And then the caravan gets attacked by grown men dressed up as wolves.

They stream out of the ruins like cockroaches, crawling out of bolt holes and howling, actually _howling_ like lunatics. Wearing wolf belts and brandishing knives and swords, they come at the caravan from all sides, throwing it immediately into disarray, sending the alarmed people fleeing towards Desmond, looking once more for his protection. Within seconds, there's pandemonium.

Desmond has a moment, just a moment, when he believes in Gods – and that the said Gods hate him.

Then he gets up, takes out his sword, and gets to work. The nearest wolf belted asshole gets the blade right through his stomach – and if skewering people with armour is easy, skewering people without is downright disturbing. There's just no resistance at all. The sword just goes through like it's nothing. Ugh.

There should really be a limit to this precursor super strength bullshit, seriously. It's starting to be a bit unnerving now.

Not that it stops him from using it to his advantage. People are shouting and the attackers are barking at them, howling, leering with their tongues hanging out. It's really creepy in a really gross way. There's some dozen men coming at Desmond and at the people he spent several days lugging through Italian countryside and he's not about to let them be killed now that they've finally made it. And the attackers are _panting_ at them like fucking dogs.

Somewhere behind him, a woman's shriek takes a distinctively disgusted and horrified tone.

So, Desmond grabs the man he skewered and throws him at another man with his tongue hanging out before jumping into the fray, sword in one hand and hidden blade extended from the wrist of the other. The creepy panting stops there. Thank fuck.

"Protect the civilians," Desmond snaps at the mercenaries who are quickly moving to join him and then turns all his attention to the fight.

Three dead, one pinned down under the weight of another – eight men left.

The men in furs try to retaliate, immediately turning to him as the main threat, but their cheap knives and swords do little against the Armour of Altaïr. Desmond feels honestly a bit overpowered among them, in all his gear – one smoke bomb and he could round this lot in seconds. It's a bit unfair, really.

But on other hand, they attacked first. And they are barking and growling at him. Who the hell barks and growls at you? Seriously. What the fuck.

He'd completely forgotten the whole Followers of Romulus nonsense. He'd been pretty sure it was one of those additions Rebecca and Shaun had made for shits and giggles because they had the research version of cabin fever or something – in the end, Desmond hadn't even bothered with the whole thing that much. It just didn't seem that important in the grand story of Ezio Auditore da Firenze, chasing around lunatics in ancient ruins. Plus the armour he was supposed to unlock was ugly, and nothing compared to the Armour of Altaïr, nothing. So why bother?

It's almost disappointing to realise that the Followers of Romulus are an actual real thing in the actual reality and somehow even worse than they were in the Animus. Desmond can see one of the men actually drooling. He is disappointed in the universe as whole, for letting this happen.

They don't even put up much of a fight, poor under-armoured suckers. Or do the smart thing and just run away when most of them end up dead. Honestly, he's not sure if they even noticed.

"What the hell was that?" one of mercenaries asks once Desmond is done with the howling lunatics. Their bodies now litter the ruins, cheap weapons and ragged furs everywhere. One of them died with his tongue hanging out. Lovely.

"Romans are crazy, crazy people, and you all should've stayed up north, really," Desmond says and carefully wipes his sword down. He casts a glance at his chest, but it's being well guarded – couple of courtesans are happily sitting on on it, and the rest of the civilians are flanking it like a honour guard. It's almost cute, how watchful and determined they look.

Desmond considers the bodies strewn about the ruins – it's the ruins of the Baths of Trajan, he now realises, where Machiavelli sort of tricked Ezio into dealing away with the Romulus lair there. Romulus lair which he vaguely remembers had some loot in it. How much of that was Rebecca's and Shaun's addition? There was something about the Borgia funding the Followers of Romulus to harass the people of Rome to make them seek protection under the Church or something, the whole thing seemed too ridiculous to be reality, but… if these lunatics are real, maybe the lair and the loot are too?

Reality usually it's too ridiculous to be realistic, isn't it?

Desmond casts a glance at the chest and puts his sword away before going to check and – yeah the entrance to the lair is there. Hmm. He could never make it through the lair with the chest. Could he trust the caravan to guard it? Not something he's sure he wants to risk, really.

Whatever.

"Looks like there's a lair under our feet where these guys came from," he says and cleans a good hidden blade too, wiping  it with a cloth. "It's a bit of a dungeon, but there's probably some loot in there if you guys are interested."

"Dungeon?" one of the courtesans asks dubiously.

"Like a hideout but tricky. A bit of a trial. Lot of climbing and jumping," Desmond says and snaps the hidden blade back in place. "It's not that hard though. If any of you want to try it, I can show you where you can get in. The loot might be worth it."

"Why don't you try it yourself, then?"

"Can't do it with the chest," Desmond shrugs. "And I'm not leaving the chest here."

The people exchange looks of mixed unease and interest. The courtesans lean in curiously. "How much loot?"

* * *

 

They make camp in the ruins of the Baths of Trajan, the caravan setting up fires and getting out the rest of their food stuff to cook, while number of the caravan heads below ground, to check out the lair. Desmond takes the time to do basically nothing for a little while, just sit and do nothing. No fighting, no carrying, nothing. He just sits on the chest and looks up to the stars and wonders about the meaning of life. It's nice.

Then his Sixth Sense pings and he knows, sort of off-hand, that Niccolo Machiavelli is spying on them.

He's hanging around the fringes of the campfire light, in the shadows of the ruins, probably there to check out the Followers of Romulus or something. Desmond can feel the guy's stare on him – but he's not coming forward. Probably knows he's not Ezio, even if he wears the guy's clothes.

Desmond waits, but the de facto Mentor of the Assassin Brotherhood doesn't come forward. Desmond waits a little longer. Machiavelli isn't going anywhere either. Okay then.

Stretching his arms and rubbing at his shoulder where he usually carries the chest, Desmond goes to talk to the guy – carefully keeping the chest within eyesight, though. He doesn't think the caravan would really steal from him – they definitely wouldn't be able to get away with the chest – but at the same time he's starting to realise just how much money there is in the thing and how much a mere handful is. If they'd get the chance to sneak away a coin or few… Desmond wouldn't be surprised.

"So," Desmond says, coming to Machiavelli, who waits carefully positioned so that there's a chest high wall between them – and easy open escape route behind the man. "Lovely night."

"A strange one for such a gathering," Machiavelli says, casing look at the caravan and then at Desmond's robes. "You come from Monteriggioni."

"What gave that away?" Desmond asks wryly.

Machiavelli doesn't answer. "Any news of Ezio Auditore?" he asked instead.

Desmond blinks and then frowns. "He isn't here yet? He rode on ahead – he should've been here by now."

"He's alive?" Machiavelli asks with surprise.

Desmond narrows his eyes a little. He'd thought that Machiavelli was the one who picked Ezio up from the road and took him rest of the way to Rome, making sure he didn't die and supplying him with brand spanking new robes and all. It wasn't Machiavelli? Who the hell then?

Desmond looks away, glancing at the chest – there's a courtesan sitting smugly on it. "Right," he says. "Could you see that these people don't get killed? I'm gonna go find him."

"Excuse me?" Machiavelli asks, giving him a frown. "You know where he is?"

"Roughly speaking, yeah," Desmond says and walks away. "I'll be back, eventually."

"Wait – who are you?"

Desmond ignores him and walks back to the chest. "Off," he says to the woman sitting on it.

"But I just sat down!" the courtesan pouts. Desmond gives her a look and she sighs. "Aren't you even going to congratulate me? Look what I have!"

She has a chest of her own, sitting in her lap – a small one, but obviously with some weight, as it takes effort for her to lift it. "Tadaah!" she says proudly.

"You ran the lair?" Desmond asks with surprise.

"Sure did," she says smugly. "And faster than everyone else. There were other chests there, I couldn't get them all – I just took this one. I figure the others will get the other chests."

Well, he'll be damned. He's actually a bit impressed. "Nice, well done, I'm impressed and proud, you will make a great robber one day," Desmond says. "Now get off my chest."

She sighs but gets up. "Aren't we going to add what's in this into your chest?"

"That's your loot," Desmond says with a shrug. "Keep it."

"But I got it for _you_ ," she says plaintively. "Also, I owe you for the fabric and the clothes. And I pay back what I owe."

Desmond gives her a look. Then he looks around at the rest of the caravan, who are watching on with interest. Maybe she's worried about the others robbing her?

… no, she isn't. None of them are going to rob her any more than they are going to rob him, are they?

Shit.

"... Alright," Desmond says awkwardly and kneels by the chest to open the lock. "Fine. You can keep the damn chest, though, I am not carrying two."

The woman's expression brightens. Soon she's happily pouring the contents of her chest – all of it silver – into Desmond's chest, saying very pointedly to the others, "My debts are thus paid," and closing her little chest with smugly superior finality.

Geez, Desmond thinks and closes the bigger – and now, joy of joys, slightly heavier – chest again. Really, the sooner he can get rid of the damn thing, the better.

With a grunt Desmond lifts the chest to his shoulder again and then glances back to Machiavelli. The man is, rather tentatively for normally such a confident bastard, coming forward. "That there is Machiavelli," Desmond says to the people of the caravan. "He works with Ezio – he's going to stand guard until I find the man."

"I..." Machiavelli starts to say and then seems to quickly reconsider, looking between him, the caravan who are now looking at him dubiously, and the chest on Desmond's shoulder. His eyes narrow slightly in consideration. "I will wait here until morning, but no longer than that," he says. "But I would have your name before you go."

"Sure, have at it," Desmond says and arches his brows, waiting.

Machiavelli narrows his eyes.

"Yeah," Desmond says with a nod. "I'll be going then. If you don't see me or Ezio by morning, feel free to abandon this lot to their fates."

"Hey, now," the courtesan pouts. "We've gotten along so well, though."

Machiavelli lets out a frustrated sound. "Do you work for Ezio Auditore?" he asks, sizing Desmond up, looking the Armour of Altaïr over and frowning. "One of his mercenaries perhaps?" he guesses rather hopefully.

"No, I don't work for him," Desmond snorts and turns to go. "Technically, he works for me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should start giving ocs some names maybe. Courtesan Number 1, Mercenary Number 1, Courtesan Number 2, Monteriggioni Townspeople Number 1....


	4. Chapter 4

Desmond doesn't have much of a plan for when he finds Ezio. Mostly he's just working on determination to do it and whatever will happen afterwards will happen. Also getting rid of the chest and not having to lug around small settlement's worth of money and people would be wonderful. Aside from that, he doesn't really have plans, though.

Probably should do something about it, but the whole not-thinking-about-it is working pretty well for him so far. He didn't come here by choice, no one told him what he's supposed to do, the whole thing's feels like great big cosmic oopsie-daisy really, so he's not even sure he's supposed to do anything. The thing he probably should've done is sit back and not do anything but – fuck that. That's how you get robbed of all your important loot and swag and he's just not going to stand for that.

After meeting Ezio and delivering the said swag, he probably should give it some thought, though.

Right now, however...

Ezio isn't at the lady's house, where he'd woken up in Rome, mostly patched up and with a new set of robes waiting for him. Desmond can tell he isn't there even before he goes to knock on the door and finds only the woman there – there isn't that Sixth Sense _ping_ he expects from important people, like Ezio.

"Yes?" the woman says and then looks him over, taking in the armour and the hood – the hidden blade bracer on Desmond's arm. "Ah," she says. "You must be looking for Ser Ezio. I'm sorry, but you have just missed him, messere, he left an hour ago."

"But he was here?" Desmond asks with some relief. When Machiavelli hadn't known about the guy he'd kind of imagined that Ezio was left lying dying in a ditch somewhere.

"Yes," the woman says. "He was, for a time."

"And he left under his own power?"

"Yes sir," the woman says and looks at him curiously. "I think he was heading for the church, to look around he said, before going to find Messere Machiavelli."

Machiavelli, who had been hanging around Mausoleo di Augusto the last time, but who would be at the Baths of Trajan now. "Hmm," Desmond says and turns back, towards the church he vaguely recalls climbing as Ezio – and how it made his spine crack. "Who brought him here?" Desmond asks then. "Did you know them?"

The woman hesitates, clasping her hands together and looking at him. "Why?"

"Just curious. He doesn't have that many friends in Rome," Desmond says. Not yet anyway. It could've been Bartholomeo or maybe La Volpe, but they would've said, right? And why the secrecy?

"I'm sorry, messere, I cannot say," the woman says finally. "I did not know him. But I think he was sent by a friend. Friend who could not come himself because of the Borgia."

Desmond arches his brow at the hint of bitterness in her voice and she looks away, towards a distant guard tower. Desmond follows her gaze. A friend, huh?

Well, there was a certain da Vinci flair to the robes Ezio got given, wasn't there? And seriously, who else could make that belt buckle and somehow make it even _more_ elaborate?

"Thank you," Desmond says to the woman and considers her. Last time Ezio had just sort of wandered off and forgotten about her, and though she doesn't look very mad about it, she doesn't look very happy either. "Are you alright?"

The woman blinks. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You helped an enemy of the Papal States," Desmond points out. "It kind of implies things."

Her expression hardens a little. "If helping him makes any trouble for the Borgia, then I am happy with it," she says. "I am fine, messere, I can handle myself."

Desmond hums at that. "Well, alright then," he says. "Good for you. Ezio went that way, you say?"

She nods and with a last look at her, Desmond turns to leave, shaking his head. Should be minding his own business – sticking his nose where it doesn't belong is how the caravan was born, after all –

"Actually, messere," the woman says and Desmond stops. She hesitates. "You people, Ser Ezio, messere Machiavelli, yourself… you are settling down in Rome?"

"Looks like it, yeah," Desmond agrees and looks back at her. "If you need anything, you can find Ezio and Machiavelli in Tiber Island – the tall building with a pigeon stand near top, that's where they're going to make their base."

The woman narrows her eyes, thoughtful. "Are you going to be fighting the Borgia?"

"Almost definitely, yeah," Desmond agrees.

"Take me with you."

Aaand there it is. Desmond takes a moment to look up to the sky in resignation, and as he does that, she pushes forward. "I have lost everything to the Borgia; my fortunes, my land, my home. I have nothing left. If you are going to fight them, I would join you, even if I can do very little for your cause."

Desmond sighs. Yeah, sure, whatever. He could argue, but what's even the point, it doesn't seem get him far these days. "If you get hurt, don't blame me," he says. "You got a weapon?"

"I have a knife," she says determinedly, though she looks a little surprised.

"Great, take it with you and let's go."

She goes to grab her knife, strapping it to her side and then hurrying after Desmond. "Thank you," she says. "My name is Margherita dei Campi, thank you for letting me join you. I promise I will work hard for you."

And now she has a name and is going to make Desmond _care_ about herself. Damn it. "Just try not to get yourself killed," he says awkwardly. "Margherita."

Then he sets out after Ezio, the woman hurriedly and determinedly trailing after him. Well, at least she's not asking him questions, yet. That's something.

Ezio is nowhere near the church, of course, though there are some random townspeople standing around, still marveling. "Just climbed the side of the church, just like that! Have you ever seen the like?"

"Absolutely never," Desmond says. "Did you see which way he went?"

"Should we not just go to the Mausoleo di Augusto?" Margherita asks tentatively. "That is where he's heading, yes?"

"Yeah, and I'm sure he won't be distracted by side missions on his way there," Desmond mutters, remembering how easily he ended up in random scuffles as Ezio. Just a snap and suddenly he was surrounded by ten Borgia soldiers, just like that. The man is a magnet for trouble.

A monk points them the way of the main street in the Campagna district and Desmond sets down it, adjusting the weight of the chest on his shoulder while being quickly followed by Margherita. She still looks a little dubious about him tracking Ezio down instead of just heading to where he was supposed to be meeting Machiavelli, but she doesn't say anything.

Then they come to a small city square – and to the gallows. Gallows, which are surrounded by still cooling dead bodies of Borgia soldiers, and where a weeping man is taking down a hanged woman from the noose. Yeah.

"Did a man in a white hood pass by here by any chance?" Desmond asks, eying the bodies. Yeah, it looks like Ezio's handiwork alright – most of them were killed by the hidden blade. One poor bastard was shot in the face – so the pistol on the man's bracer is still working alright, too.

"Yes, he told me I could take her down, that he was going pay visit to il Carnefice," the weeping man says, hugging the body close. "My poor Livia, my poor dear Livia! She did nothing wrong, her only crime was saying no where they demanded compliance! How can people do such things?"

"Oh Angelo," Margherita says quietly. "I am so sorry."

"Lady Margherita?"

Desmond ignores them awkwardly, looking away. He'd lived through this Ezio, but it was one of those things that just sort of… happened. He hadn't felt much about it, at the time. It's a bit different now that people who were previously just two dimensional memories are actually living breathing human beings.

Damnit.

"Margherita, stay with him, will you?" Desmond says and stands up. "I'm going to find Ezio."

"Yes, alright," she says and turns to the weeping man. "Come now, Angelo, let's see what we can do for her…"

Desmond turns away, a bit relieved even as he realises the amount of climbing he has to do with the chest to get at the house where Ezio had gone. The place sits on a sort of a garden platform overlooking the small section of the district below. He'd have to climb to buildings and then ledges to get there and he has the chest to mind. And he sure as hell is not leaving it behind where there's pile of corpses to attract more guards.

Sighing, Desmond sets out to find stairs or a street leading up, anything. It takes a while and he has to climb some walls anyway, damn it. And it's just as awkward with the chest as he thought it would be – he had to haul the chest up ahead of him and then climb after it and then repeat the process again on the next ledge.

Maybe he should've just left the chest with the caravan, they could've looked after it.

… yeah, no way in hell.

Of course by the time he makes it to the surprisingly nice house of il Carnefice, there's just expertly assassinated hangman surrounded by a pile of bodies there and no sign of Ezio. Of course.

* * *

 

"Don't say it," Desmond grunts.

"I would not dream of it," Margherita says, coughing. "But perhaps we should have come here straight away."

"I just told you not to say it," Desmond says and drops the chest with a sigh before collapsing down onto a wooden bench. He is seriously starting to get sick of the damn chest. Sick of Ezio too, to be honest.

They've made it to the Mausoleo di Augusto and there's of course no sign of Ezio there.

"Perhaps he met with messere Machiavelli and they continued on to Tiber island?"

Desmond sighs, stretching his arms and cracking his neck. "Machiavelli isn't here – he's at the Baths of Trajan. And Ezio doesn't know about Tiber island," he says, rubbing at his shoulder and looking at Margherita. "So what's your –"

"You there!"

Desmond looks up and sighs at the sight of Borgia soldiers, five of them, marching their way. "You were seen at the square, where number of soldiers were killed by a rogue vagabond – just before the executor appointed by Cesare Borgia himself was brutally murdered in his own estate!" the man in lead says and points at Desmond. "Do you have anything to say on the matter?"

"Terrible coincidence," Desmond says. "Utterly tragic about the executor, truly. Couldn't have happened to a better man, I'm sure."

That earns him some confused and then very suspicious looks, as the soldiers try to parse whether he was being insulting or not. "What's in the chest?" the soldier demands.

"My underwear," Desmond answers blandly while Margherita throws him an worried look. "Man should always have plenty of spares."

"The chest is _steel reinforced_."

"Well, I haven't had the time to do my washing in a while."

The soldier narrows his eyes. "It looks like a bank chest. Where did you get it?"

Desmond looks at him levelly, while behind the man the other soldiers are pulling out their weapons. Then Desmond stands up. "Alright," he says and motions Margherita to back away. "Let's do this then. I could use the exercise anyway."

That makes the soldier's eyes blaze. "Get him!" he orders and pulls out his sword.

Desmond draws his sword as well and while Margherita backs away hurriedly, he meets the first soldier blade to blade and then in the same move sticks his hidden blade in the man's gut, right through the fancy, well polished armour. The other soldiers surround him and try attack all at once, hesitating only a little when their leader stumbles away from Desmond blade – then there's a sword, a hammer, and two polearms coming at him, all from different directions.

Desmond ducks under one of the polearms, using his the Sword of Altaïr to deflect the sword at the man with the hammer – then he snatches a hold of the other polearm and tugs at it hard enough to pull the man holding it off his feet. The soldier lets go and Desmond throws the polearm – right into the man with the hammer. He goes down with a grunt.

Two down, one disarmed, two to go.

Swinging his sword and knocking the last polearm away, Desmond turns to the man with the sword – just in time to see him jerk and arch, his face twisted in pain. There's hand holding onto the man's chin from behind while another hand pushes something into the man's back. A hidden blade.

The soldier falls and Desmond is left starting at Ezio.

"You seem to be wearing my clothes," Ezio comments and then suddenly swings his arm, throwing something, hard. Behind Desmond, the last polearm guy falters and drops his weapon, a knife embedded hilt deep in his chest. Desmond looks at him, then at the last man, the one he disarmed. The soldier takes in his odds, turns tail, and starts running.

The whole thing lasted less than half a minute.

Desmond straightens his back and then, after checking that he got no blood on the Sword of Altaïr, puts it away. "They're very nice set of clothes," he says to Ezio and takes the man in while Ezio does the same warily.

Desmond had lived through almost Ezio's entire life, skipping few years here and there maybe, but still. For most of Ezio's life, Desmond had been there right with him – within him, kind of, wearing his memories like a suit of clothes. He kind of thought he knew everything there was to know about Ezio Auditore da Firenze by this point, because there seriously wasn't any way he could get closer to the guy.

Apparently he was wrong. Very wrong.

 _Damn,_ it's a whole different thing to look at the man from the outside, huh?

Desmond clears his throat while Ezio meticulously cleans his hidden blade with a handkerchief before putting it away with a slight, sharp snick. Then the Master Assassin comes closer, stepping over the bodies in between until he's right in front of Desmond and easily within a blade distance. "That is my armour," he says, slow and dangerous, his voice low. "Where did you get it?"

"At Monteriggioni," Desmond says, clearing his throat again. Jesus _Christ_.

Ezio narrows his eyes, watching his face. "Your face is familiar, but I don't know you. Who are you and how, precisely, did you get my armour from Monteriggioni?"

"Obviously by being there at the right time – I got a lot more than just your armour," Desmond says and motions. Ezio turns his head only enough to glance from the corner of his eyes. He looks at Margherita first – then at the chest. The frown on his face turns slightly confused.

"I assume it doesn't have your undergarments in it," Ezio mutters, casting a look at Desmond.

"No, not really, no. There are also a whole lot of people waiting for you not far from here," Desmond adds. "People from Monteriggioni. They insisted on following me here. They're waiting by the Baths of Trajan – Machiavelli is there too."

Ezio frowns, turning to him. "Why?" he asks, dubious and slightly put off now. "Monteriggioni is gone, and with it all claim to land or lordship I ever had. I have nothing to give them."

"Not strictly speaking true," Desmond says, coughing, and takes out the key to the chest.

Ezio eyes him warily for a moment and then accepts the key, turning to the chest. While Desmond looks around, watching for more soldiers, and Margherita watches them curiously, Ezio crouches by the chest and opens it.

And then, after just a glimpse inside, he slams the lid back shut and hastily locks it again. The look he gives Desmond is astonished and suspicious. "This is…?"

"What was in the bank," Desmond shrugs. "And I might have also robbed Cesare's army, I don't really remember. Things got a bit hazy towards the end. Anyway, it's yours."

Ezio looks at him, then at the chest. Then at Margherita. "Is he the one who brought me to you?"

"No, messere," she says. "He only came looking for you after."

"And you're here because…"

"I wished to help."

"Ah."

Ezio rests a hand on the chest and then stands again, pocketing the key. Desmond looks up – in the distance, he can hear footsteps and the clanking of armour. "More soldiers this way come," he says and glances at Ezio.

"Then it is time we leave," Ezio says and goes to lift the chest. Or try, anyway. He only gets it about inch off the ground before he has to drop it and grab at his side, a grunt of pain escaping his lips. "Lord, that's heavy," he says and leans into the pain.

Shit. Ezio was shot, right, and not just clipped lightly like Desmond was – Ezio was shot through and didn't get patched up until a little while ago.

"Yeah, okay," Desmond says with a sigh and steps closer. "Let me."

Ezio sways to his feet and out of the way while Desmond crouches down and hoists the chest, once more, up and to his shoulder. With any luck, this would be the last time he would have to carry the damn thing around.

Ezio eyes him with a narrow look, his eyes lingering on Desmond's discoloured hand, but though he obviously wants to ask, there are soldiers coming. "Let's go," he says. "Which way are the Baths of Trajan?"

"This way," Margherita says and hurriedly turns to lead them. Desmond waits until Ezio turns to follow her and then moves after them. It's not a very fast progression.

Of course the soldiers catch up with them.

* * *

 

The chest is a little bit bloodier by the time they make it to the Baths of Trajan and Desmond is more than a little bit sad that the _baths_ part of the whole thing isn't functional anymore. Without the aqueducts, there isn't much in way of water coming to the ruins and so they're dry as the desert – which is a pity. He could use a bath right about now.

"You carried the chest all the way from Monteriggioni?" Ezio asks, watching him.

"Yeah," Desmond agrees.

"Just in order to bring it to me?"

"Pretty much," Desmond says, looking away. He'd stolen it to keep it, but while sober he's pretty well aware that he wouldn't be able to do as much with the money as Ezio could. Ezio could rebuild the Brotherhood hundred times faster with proper funds – and begin undermining the Borgia while at it. It's Ezio's money anyway. Mostly.

Ezio watches him from under his white hood, only half of his chiseled features visible. The inside of his hood is red. It's really unnecessarily aesthetic, the whole thing, with all the layers and lapels and embellishments – and those sleeves, how do they even begin to make sense? The whole thing is just ridiculously grandiose and pretty. And so fucking clean. Somehow, the robes make a Master Assassin with already thousands of deaths on his conscience look fucking _pure_.

Ezio looks like a treat in it, a really rich untouched strawberry shortcake or something. Christ.

Desmond _really_ needs a drink.

"Why?"

Desmond clears his throat and looks away. "Sorry?" he asks. Even his voice sounds parched.

"Why did you do this?" Ezio asks. "You carry on your shoulder a fortune enough to build a nation – and you chose to bring it to me, instead of keeping it. Why?"

Desmond swallows and then shrugs with the one shoulder not carrying fortune enough to build a nation. "Because it's yours?" he offers. "I mean, I could have poured it all out in a cave somewhere and slept on it like a dragon, and I can't say I wasn't tempted, but it's not my money. It's yours."

Ezio casts him a look. "But it's not," he says. "Like Monteriggioni herself, I lost my fortunes. And if that chest also includes money you took from Cesare… surely it is all yours."

Desmond blows out a breath. Right, Renaissance sensibilities, the divine right of conquest and all that. They're still halfway in Feudalism and Manorialism – and Capitalism is still in its infancy, isn't it?

Desmond hadn't even realised that it might actually have an effect on how Ezio might view his own fortunes, but… it has always been tied to the patronage Ezio has practiced, hasn't it? In Florence and Venice, in Rome and eventually even in Constantinople, Ezio only really got wealthy through playing the patron for people and businesses and through investing. Which, to Desmond, had seemed like a perfect example of capitalism, but… Ezio is a Master Assassin – he could have easily stolen, extorted, blackmailed and just generally murdered his way into wealth. Or he could have just played a hitman, it would've paid plenty. And sure, he did a lot of that too, but… it was through patronage he got obscenely wealthy, time and time again.

Instead of going after what he lost with Monteriggioni, even when stealing it all back from the Borgia was well within his abilities… he just let it all go and started again from nothing and never complained. The only one pissed off about losing what he gained was Desmond, who viewed it a bit differently with his more self centered sensibilities.

"Then I'm giving it to you," Desmond says, casting a look at the man. "I didn't haul this damn thing half across Italy for you to refuse it."

Ezio eyes him for a moment and, _seriously,_ did Margherita trim his beard while she was giving him TLC, because damn it look perfect, not a single whisker too long or to short. For a man who's lost everything and been shot, Ezio looks way too well put together.

Desmond looks away and Ezio hums, thoughtful. "Well, since you went through such trouble, I suppose it would be callous of me to refuse," he says, faintly amused. "I would like to know your name, stranger. I know you aren't from Monteriggioni, I'd already know you if that was the case. Who are you?"

Desmond presses his lips together and then lets out a slow breath. Fuck it, he's already fucking up history left right and centre here, and fuck the Precursors and their plans anyway.

"Desmond," he says. "My name's Desmond Miles."

Ezio doesn't say anything for a moment, his face losing all expression, his eyes widening. "You're wearing my armour, Desmond Miles," he says then, his voice slightly choked.

"Yeah," Desmond says and looks away, embarrassed and thrilled in equal measure. "You can get it back over my cold dead body."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In conclusion: Ezio looks like a snacc and Desmond probably hasn't had snacks since being kidnapped.


	5. Chapter 5

Desmond sits back and pretends not or overhear the argument Ezio and Machiavelli are having.

_"... torture Mario and gain the name that way?"_

_"Mario wouldn't have told them anything, even under torture,"_ Ezio answers, his voice harsh. _"And you know it as well as I do. Look around us, Machiavelli – is this something a normal man could do?"_

 _"With the money he was carrying, anyone could do it,"_ Machiavelli says. _"People flock to wealth like rats to scraps, and from what I have learned here, he wasn't as firm about keeping that chest lid shut as he should have been."_

 _"And what of the actual act of carrying the chest?"_ Ezio asks pointedly. _"I tried it and I could barely make the thing twitch. He hauls it around on one shoulder."_

Desmond snorts and quickly looks away as the both turn their eyes to him – and the chest under his ass. Machiavelli doesn't have answer to that, doesn't he?

"What are you laughing about?" the courtesan sitting on a broken pillar beside him asks.

"Nothing."

She looks the way of the two Assassins and then back at him, pursing her lips slightly. "Are you really going to just give it all away to him?" she asks a little dubiously. "After all this trouble, you're just going to give it all away."

"That's the idea."

"Everything?"

"Mm-hmm," Desmond agrees. "Everything."

The courtesan blows out a breath. "Some of that I got for you," she says and folks here arms. "I went through so much trouble and you're just going to give it away. Rude."

Desmond looks at her, arching a brow at her. She harrumphs. "He should let you keep some of it," she says. "As reward."

"What makes you think I want it?" Desmond asks, squinting at her.

She gives him a pointed look.

Across the clearing, Machiavelli clears his throat. _"I admit, it is odd, but there have been strong men before. Physical strength does not make you divine. Not does a set of robes – and the fact that the has them at all only makes it more suspicious. There is only one place he could have gotten them from – one person he could have gotten them from. An obvious tactic to garner our trust."_

 _"And the contents of this chest – do you see Cesare parting with them, just to slip a spy to our ranks?"_ Ezio asks wryly. _"Have you seen how much there is in here?"_

Machiavelli scowls at that, thoughtful. _"Certainly it cannot be that much."_

_"The thing is full to the brim, Machiavelli. Pour it out and it would make a knee high mount. And before you say it, no, not of copper. Silver and gold."_

Machiavelli looks both troubled and interested at that.

Desmond looks away from them and up to Margherita, who sits down on the broken stairs beside him. "Still want to join in on this?" Desmond asks amusedly at her troubled look.

"I did not know you lost your home, Ser Desmond," she says. "I am so sorry. The list of Borgia's crimes seems to only grow."

"I didn't live in Monteriggioni, but appreciate it anyway."

"Wait," the courtesan says, sitting up straighter. "You told _her_ your name?"

"No, I told _Ezio_ my name. Margherita just happened to overhear," Desmond shrugs.

The courtesan eyes him in mingled outrage and fascination. "So _who_ you tell it to matters, hmm? And you know her name?" she demands and folds her arms over the chest in her lap, leaning in curiously. "Why do you know _her_ name?"

"She gave it to me, I couldn't exactly tell her off for wanting to introduce herself."

The courtesan narrows her eyes and then holds out a hand. "My name is Fabiola Marsini, pleasure to meet you," she says determinedly.

"Uh," Desmond answers and leans back a little. "Do you have to?"

She grins. "I absolutely do. I want you to have my name. My name is Fabiola Marsini, _Desmond_."

Ezio and Machiavelli are watching them as Desmond bends to the inevitable and shakes Fabiola's hand. Ezio hums. _"I assume you have investigated here, questioned these people?"_ he asks Machiavelli. _"What have you learned?"_

 _"Most of them came from Monteriggioni, but not all – and none of them ever saw him inside the town,"_ Machiavelli says. _"They only met him on the road outside, or in the countryside – and often in urgent circumstances. While they were being attacked or harassed by Borgia soldiers or in some other trouble, he happened to appear as if from nowhere to help. Convenient, wouldn't you say?"_

 _"Nothing wrong with convenient,"_ Ezio says.

Machiavelli gives the man an unimpressed look. _"He also appeared to them wearing your clothes, looking quite bit like you, and ended to earning their trust and loyalty. This doesn't concern you at all?"_

 _"From what I can tell, it wasn't without cause,"_ Ezio muses.

_"These are your people, Ezio."_

_"They are the people of Monteriggioni and they are now without home. I did what I could for them when the attack happened, but after it I had nothing to give them. I lost everything,"_ Ezio says. _"I am not sorry that they found protection under someone else, Machiavelli."_

"So," Fabiola says, eying Margherita. "You are Roman, yes? You live here."

"I do, yes, in the Campagna district," Margherita says. "I own a small estate there, though lately I have not been able to  afford the upkeep."

Desmond glances at her. "You own land here," he says. "And that man at the gallows called you a lady."

"Oh did he indeed?" Fabiola asks, narrowing her eyes.

Margherita coughs lightly. "I did and… I suppose technically do possess a small claim to nobility," she says quietly. "But my title had become a hollow one since the Borgia came to power. Much of my land was claimed by the Papacy and the rest I can hardly cultivate, the tax placed on it is to high," she says and sighs. "Not that there is much point in trying to support farms anyway, they only go fallow."

Fabiola hums, eyeing Desmond for some random. "What?" Desmond asks.

"So, treasures, lords and ladies, huh?" she asks, amused.

Desmond gives her a confused look. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he says.

Fabiola smiles secretively and then looks up as they're approached by someone – several someones, three of them in total. A scarred mercenary, a girl no older than eighteen from the family that joined the caravan fit no good reason, and another courtesan, older than Fabiola. They're all carrying small chests with them. Very similar chests to the one Fabiola had in her lap.

The lair runners, all of whom are giving him and his chest some meaningful and proud looks.

"Give him your names first," Fabiola says before anyone can say anything.

"Oh God," Desmond mutters. "Don't."

Across the clearing Ezio and Machiavelli watch as Desmond is forcibly introduced to Salvatore Donati, Laura Boccanera, and Desiderata Sallucci before their loot is ceremoniously added into the chest.

 _"And he says it's all for you, but look at them,"_ Machiavelli says with disgust. _"Does this look like it's for your benefit?"_

Ezio hums. _"Where did they get those chests?"_ he asks with interest. _"That is not an insignificant amount of money."_

 _"He pointed them to a hideout of a cult that has been for weeks harassing the people of_ _Rome_ _. The first ones who investigated the lair came back with spoils of their venture,"_ Machiavelli says. _"Which is not a point in his favour – I suspect that the cult, the Followers of_ _Romulus_ _, are funded by the Borgia and the fact that he knew of it is highly suspect."_

Ezio gives him a look. _"You just cannot accept a fortunate thing with good faith, can you, Machiavelli?"_ he asks. _"If someone gave you a horse you'd refuse it on count of bad teeth."_

Machiavelli narrows his eyes. _"It is all too convenient, Ezio – the whole thing seems like a setup. Surely even you can see that no one does this for no reason."_

 _"Even if there is a reason, is a great gift,"_ Ezio says and folds his arms. _"But you do not trust this gift."_

_"Such gifts do not come without ultimatums, Ezio. There must be a price to pay."_

Desmond closes the chest with a sigh and looks at the women and one man looking at him hopefully. "Alright alright, you did well, I'm very proud. Can you get off my back now?"

"We're not on your back," Fabiola says and leans in eagerly. "But if you want us to –"

"No, stop it," Desmond says and hoists the chest to his shoulder – which shuts Machiavelli to and makes Ezio look his way. "Enough of this bullshit," Desmond mutters and sets forward.

Both Ezio and Machiavelli look vaguely alarmed as he walks over – Machiavelli actually jumps a bit when Desmond drops the chest at their feet.

"I'm sick of listening your bickering," Desmond says. "Here, have at it. It's your problem now. Enjoy."

"I – wait," Ezio says with alarm. "Where are you going?"

"I am going to find myself something to drink," Desmond says and doesn't look at him too closely – there's a flush of colour on Ezio's cheeks, from the argument or from the surprise and just – nope. "Lots of something to drink. I think I've earned it."

"I have some wine!" Salvatore calls to him quickly. "I found some in the lair."

"Great – you're my new favourite," Desmond says and turns to him. "Let's get drunk."

 _"He heard us all the way from there?"_ he can hear Machiavelli muttering.

 _"Still think there is nothing unusual about him?"_ Ezio asks pointedly.

Then Salvatore holds out a bottle of wine and Desmond stops listening.

* * *

 

It's a nice night. The sky is starlit and cloudless above them and and the people of the caravan have lit fires across the ruins, creating little pockets of warm light here and there. They've also set up some tents and some people are cooking and there is a goblet in Desmond's hand, which had not gone empty once.

Fabiola is sitting smugly in his lap. Desmond isn't entirely sure when she got there, but she seems happy.

"You're adorable," Desmond tells her and pats her head. "Little newbie dungeon raider, kicking everyone's butt. You're going to go far."

"Not quite what I was going for here, but alright," she laughs. "Are there other dungeons I could raid, then?"

"Loads, but they've got bad guys too. You need swag before trying them," Desmond tells her seriously.

"S-swag?"

"Armour, tools, weapons," Desmond explains and spreads out his arms to display the Armour of Altaïr in all of its epic glory. "Swag."

Fabiola laughs at that. "Uh-huh. So I need swag to raid more dungeons, I see. I'll get right on it."

"Have to buy a blacksmith for you," Desmond says and pats her again. "Get your some nice armour. That fits. Get you all geared up in swag, and then you too can get loot. It will be great."

"You like loot, huh?" Fabiola asks, amused. "You gave all your loot away, though."

Desmond squints at her and then looks around – but no, the chest still there, Ezio is sitting on it. "No, I didn't," Desmond says.

"No, you did," Fabiola says and pouts. "And we went through such trouble to add to your hoard too. It's a bit rude for you to just give it away."

"Yeah, but I gave it to _Ezio_ ," Desmond points out. "That's basically the same as keeping it."

Fabiola eyes him thoughtfully and then pats his cheek. "I guess," she says and sighs. "Ah, well. I guess someone like you would only go for the best, and he isn't someone I can compete with. Can't blame a girl for trying though, can you?"

"Never," Desmond says, even though he has no idea what she's talking about. He shakes his head and then looks at Ezio, who is watching them. "Can you get off me? Ezio wants to talk to me."

Fabiola sighs wistfully and pats his cheek again. "You are adorable too, Desmond, when you're not being completely terrifying," she says and gets off his lap.

"Thanks – you too?"

She heads off to talk to Margherita and Desmond stands up, takes a moment to make sure he can stay mostly upright. Laura reaches over to refill his goblet – they must've gotten more wine somewhere, because this is a new bottle – and then turns back to her conversation with Desiderata while Desmond makes good way towards Ezio.

"Machiavelli left?" he asks.

"He's gone ahead to prepare a hideout for us," Ezio says, watching him, his face shadowed.

"Tiber island, right," Desmond agrees, admiring the gleam of firelight on Ezio's eyes. Even without trying, Ezio is smouldering. Nice.

Ezio blinks. "You know about it?" he asks, his voice low.

"Hmm. I know everything about you," Desmond says and goes to sit beside Ezio on the chest – he'd killed people with the thing, it can take the weight.

He miscalculates the space left on the chest's lid, though, and ends up falling off it and landing on his ass on the stone floor at Ezio's feet. Desmond blinks with surprise, looking around.

Well, whatever. His wine didn't get spilled so it's all good.

Ezio clears his throat. "You… know everything about me," he says slowly.

"Yeah," Desmond agrees. "Shouldn't be telling you, they wouldn't want me to tell you, but fuck them, they're full of bullshit. I was there when you were _born_ , it like… fucks up all conventions of privacy and secrecy, you know?"

Ezio lets out a strange sound and Desmond tilts his head up, leaning it back on the chest to see Ezio past the edge of the hood he's wearing. "You okay?"

"You were there when I was born?" Ezio asks, his voice thin.

"In like spirit, yeah. I wasn't there physically. I wasn't here physically until like around Monteriggioni," Desmond says and sighs, resting the wine goblet on his lap. "I really liked Monteriggioni, Ezio. It was great. I was so pissed when it got destroyed."

Ezio swallows, saying nothing for a long moment. Then he looks down. "Why are you here?" he asks, very quiet. "Did Minerva send you?"

"Dunno," Desmond answers honestly. "Don't think so, though. Don't think I'm supposed to be here. I just sort of appeared."

"In Monteriggioni," Ezio clarifies. "Why Monteriggioni?"

Desmond just sort of looks at him pointedly.

Ezio swallows again and with his head tilted downwards his chin is forcing the collar of his robes open and – damn, it looks so nice, the movement under the stubbled, tanned skin. Ezio has a really nice neck and jaw and everything, and it's almost completely hidden by the collar of his stupid pretty strawberry ice cream robes.

Fuck – right, wasn't supposed to be thinking that.

Desmond clears his throat and then straightens his neck, looking down from Ezio and at his goblet. He takes a drink.

"Probably an accident, me being here," Desmond says. "Or something, I don't know. I try not to think about it. But since I'm here, I thought, why not get some of our stuff back? You kinda left Monteriggioni with nothing."

"Our stuff," Ezio repeats.

Desmond waves a dismissive hand and didn't look up. "Mine, yours, semantics," he says. "I bought it all back to you, didn't I?"

"Hmm," Ezio says and clears his throat. "I would like that armour back as well," he says. "It was quite the trial to get it."

"Yeah. Visitazione was bitch, wasn't it?" Desmond says, bit nostalgically. "Still can't have it back, I like it too much."

Ezio lets out a sound which is in part amusement and in part resignation, and Desmond risks a look upwards. Yep, he still looks like desert. Strawberries dipped in melted white chocolate maybe. Hmm.

In hindsight, Desmond isn't sure when was the last time he ate anything. He's drank aplenty through, thinking of which reminds him...

"You can have your medicine back if you want," Desmond says. "I drank one of them and I still can't remember most of what happened after. I think your stuff is actually lethal."

"...which one did you drink?" Ezio asks warily and Desmond takes one of the phials out. "You're only supposed to take a spoonful of that twice a day, at most," Ezio says slowly. "You drank the whole bottle?"

"You know, that makes a lot of sense in hindsight?" Desmond says, looking at the bottle. "Should've really written that down on the label or something."

"Well, they weren't meant to be used by anyone other than me, and I know the dosage," Ezio says and takes the bottle from his hand. "What else did you take from the Villa?"

Desmond tilts his head back, thinking about it. "Your stuff and the money," he says and then pats over the armour, checking for hidden stuff. "I think that's about it."

"Not the Codex pages, by any chance?"

Desmond hesitates. "No," he says. "Sorry, I didn't think to get them, no."

"Pity," Ezio says and Desmond hangs his head a little. He hadn't even thought about them – and he really should've, there were so damn important, and written by Altaïr which made them almost personal, but... he'd been more interested in material things, not knowledge. Like a drunk, high dumbass.

Quietly, he takes another drink.

"Do you know where Cesare took Caterina Sforza?" Ezio asks.

Ah. Right. "I don't know where she is right now, but I know he's bringing her here," Desmond says and closes his eyes. "They're eventually going to take her to Castel Sant'Angelo – you'll be able to rescue her then."

Caterina would never get Forli back, though, and as far a Desmond knows, once she rides out of Rome, Ezio would never see her again.

He's still sober enough to keep that to himself, though.

Ezio says nothing for a while and Desmond eyes the people of the caravan, who are eating and drinking and making generally merry. Seventy people, or thereabouts. It's a bit much for the Tiber Island hideout, but not for Rome in general. There would be other hideouts, other guild houses. Maybe a shop or two… not that it's up to Desmond anymore. He delivered the money to Ezio.

What the hell is he going to do now?

"I am not drunk enough," Desmond decides and drains his goblet, going to get up. Ezio stops him with a hand on his shoulder, and with an oof Desmond sits back down. "Whoa, what?"

Ezio looks at him. "Will you come with me to Tiber Island?" he asks quietly and then looks at the chest. "I – cannot carry it."

"Oh. Right, yeah. Sure," Desmond says. "Right now?" he asks then and looks hesitantly at the caravan.

"I'm sure they will be fine for the night," Ezio says. "Some of these people are warriors."

Desmond hums. "I'm not worried about them getting attacked or hurt – just complaining," he mutters – though maybe he's a little bit worried, but – "Yeah, alright."

Ezio gets up while Desmond turns to crouch by the chest, lifting it, once fucking more, to his shoulder. Ezio watches him, contemplative, as Desmond stands up with the chest balanced on his pauldron and then turns away. Desmond watches him go, white clad Assassin stalking his way into the shadows. He really sticks out like a sore thumb in that getup, doesn't he? It's like he wants to be found and hunted down.

Maybe he does.

Strangely, no one puts up a fuss as Desmond follows Ezio out of the ruins of the Baths of Trajan and into the darkness of Roman countryside.

* * *

 

Machiavelli doesn't seem too happy to see him following Ezio, but he lets them in anyway, showing Ezio around while Desmond tries to figure out where to put down the chest. He ends up just sort of standing there, swaying a little under the weight and wishing for another drink.

The hideout is still pretty empty. No recruits, no paintings, no armoury or gallery for Leonardo's things. Everything is still in the beginning phases and Ezio had a long way to go to filling this place up with stuff. Hell, he hasn't even started pulling the guilds together, he doesn't know about Claudia and Maria or la Volpe…

It's so new and nostalgic all at once. World full of opportunities. It's nice. Loss of Monteriggioni sucks and nothing will ever patch it up – but what would start here is something epic. Ezio would completely remake the Brotherhood and while he was in charge it would be amazing. And it hasn't even begun yet.

Desmond breathes in that new-hideout smell and lets it out slowly. He might have no idea what he's doing, but he knows what Ezio is doing and that's sort of enough in its own right, isn't it?

"Desmond?" Ezio calls. "Could you bring the chest over here?"

"Sure," Desmond says, not suspecting a goddamn thing. He just turns to follow Ezio through an open doorway into a hall and then to a room where Ezio holds the door open for him and then closes it behind him.

Desmond blinks slowly. He expected an office or a basement room with bars in the windows or something. A cell maybe. Something secure.

Ezio took him to a bedroom. With a bed in it. A big one. It's like… right there.

"Um," Desmond says, trying to pick up his brain from floor.

"Just put that down wherever," Ezio says and pushes his white and red hood down, leaving Desmond starting at his hair. How the fuck does the guy never get hood hair, it's unfair. Poor Connor was all hood hair and Altaïr and Desmond both had to keep their hair short or it went literally everywhere. Ezio is just –

Desmond drops the chest. "Um," he says again, a bit more urgently, as Ezio takes off his hidden blade.

"I didn't thank you for the trouble you went through for my benefit, did I?" Ezio says and smiles slowly and reaches for the back of his head – and it holy shit, that's unfair, that's not allowed, that's _illegal_. "Please let me thank your properly."

Desmond lasts about a second against the sight of Ezio Auditore with his hair down and trailing over the shoulders of his robes, starkly dark against the white fabric.

Then Ezio beckons him, and like on a leash, Desmond goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Smut** and nothing but smut in this chapter, if you're not into it you can safely skip it and miss nothing about the story. Except the smut. And smut related things.

He's about to have sex with Ezio.

Desmond's mind sort of circles around that thought helplessly, while Ezio expertly finds the buckles of his belt and lets it drop, humming with satisfaction at Desmond's dull compliance – or maybe his lack of objection? Desmond isn't sure, though he knows he's being kind of useless, he doesn't know what to do with his hands – can he touch, is touching allowed, is this –

He's about to have _sex_ with _Ezio_.

Desmond opens his mouth to ask – what, permission? Explanation? He isn't sure. Before he can ask anything, though, there's a tug at a belt on his shoulder and the sideways cape goes fluttering to the ground – and in that same move, Ezio pulls him closer, tugs him forward and slightly down and whatever Desmond was about to ask gets smothered under his lips and oh _god_. Ezio is kissing him. Those are Ezio's lips against his.

He's about to have _sex with Ezio_.

Desmond whines against the mouth on his, confused and needy and suddenly almost completely sober. It just evaporates out of him, and he's left with – not quite clarity, but sudden, overwhelming awareness of each and every point of contact between them. Ezio's left hand grasping at the straps of his armour. His right hand Desmond's waist, worming under the lapels of his robe. Ezio's leg between his knees, pushed just so that Desmond doesn't quite have proper balance. Ezio's _lips,_ oh god.

Desmond remembers his hands and the next thing he knows, he has them at Ezio's jaw, fingernails scraping through his stubble. Ezio hums with pleasure and lets him tilt his face, just as pliable as he is pushy, and, " _Mmh_ ," so responsive, pushing against Desmond's lips just so without being forceful and –

Piece of the Armour of Altaïr falls, and Desmond pulls back, to look at Ezio's slightly smug, pleased face. "If you're doing this just to get the armour, I am going to kick you in the balls," Desmond says, breathless.

Ezio makes exaggeratedly pained face. "I would never."

"I know you – you totally woul –"

Ezio kisses him again and Desmond lets him – starting to in turn tug at Ezio's clothes, because – because – _fuck_.

He's about to have sex with Ezio and he is _so very down for that_. Like, so much more than he should be. And fuck it, if Ezio is doing this just to steal his armour, then good riddance, worth it, they had a nice run, Desmond will embrace armourless life –

Dragging his mouth from Ezio's before he loses his mind, Desmond trails his lips down the stubble – fuck, it's coarser than he thought, _nice_ – down to his neck – his skin there just as tight as he thought it would be, salty and unscented. While Ezio hums with surprised pleasure, Desmond starts returning the favour and getting the man out of his robes. He has a bit of an upper hand here though – Ezio might be wearing stupidly elaborate pretty strawberry and cream robes, but he doesn't have any armour.

And Desmond hasn't had sex with anyone in… far, _far_ too long, really. Better not think how long, actually – that way human experimentation and Abstergo lies, and that's just not sexy at all.

Pushing that though as far from his mind as he can, Desmond nudges at Ezio's chin until he can get his mouth on his Adam's apple – while Ezio arches into it, Desmond gets his belt open and tosses it aside, tearing into the robes underneath. He knows in theory what Ezio looks and feels like under them, but that's in first person, or through touch of other people, not his own, and –

Desmond gets more of Ezio's neck bare and then he has to follow it, down to the hollow between his collarbones. Fuck, he can feel the chest hair – he's gotta get his hands on that, yesterday.

"Where's the hurry, my darling?" Ezio groans, leaning his head down and brushing his cheek against Desmond's hair. "We have all night, no need to rush."

"Do you have any idea how –" Desmond whines and then stops, his finger slipping under Ezio's robes, and he doesn't feel skin there, nor a shirt.

Bandages.

"You lunatic, you're _hurt_ , you've been _shot_ –" Desmond says and goes to pull away – and then Ezio lets out an impatient noise, right in his ear – and then he bites the top of Desmond's earlobe. It's just a little thing, but Desmond's whole body seems to seize and go still at the feel of it. Ezio's breath against his ear and hair, his teeth tugging against the curl of the cartilage, his tongue, flicking wetly over the mark he's making. "Oh, _fuck_ –"

Okay, did not know that was a sensitive spot. No one's ever bitten his ears before, holy shit.

"I know how much I can handle, my love," Ezio purrs in his ear, his breath hot and his voice a growl. "Never mind my injury – pleasure will only heal it faster."

"Pretty sure that's not how it works –" Desmond says and then Ezio is kissing him again and pushing him towards the bed. A bit weak kneed and nowhere near nice enough to actually stop this now, even on the account of _Ezio having been shot recently,_ Desmond lets himself be manoeuvred to the bed.

Ezio stands over him, satisfied and hot eyed and helpless, Desmond just reaches for him and gets the white robes open. Under them, he looks no less a treat – without them, he looks like a _feast._ He is also _very much bandaged._

"Absolute madman," Desmond murmurs, running his hands over the bandages, checking how well they're tied, how clean they are – how bad the injury under them is. They're not red, anyway, no sign of blood – and Ezio has been running and climbing and fighting since then, so it can't be so bad, but still. The bandage is still very much there and for a _reason_ – and Desmond remembers the pain of it. It had been a through-and-through, and probably hadn't torn any intestines since the man hadn't _died_ , but it wasn't exactly something light.

Ezio stands up straighter and lets the robes drop, watching his reaction with interest. Then, probably because he's actually trying to kill Desmond, he starts taking off his pants – hose, whatever it's called, it's fucking _indecent._ The legs are sort of separate pieces, and the fabric over his crotch is different from them, and – there it goes.

Ezio is really way, way too good at stripping, holy shit.

He is also fucking gorgeous, not that Desmond wasn't exactly expecting that, but _damn_. Ezio is a whole lot hairier and wider than Desmond is, all around, and just ripped, skin pulled tight over muscles, not a hint of body fat, anywhere. He's definitely on the top heavy side – side effect of all the climbing they do, Desmond is getting there too these days, but Ezio has him definitely beat on the shoulder part. Fuck, the guy has shoulders for _days_ – which makes his waist and hips look downright unreasonable.

Ezio is also at half mast, which makes all of Desmond's offhand concerns about this being just a ploy to steal his armour or maybe some sort of fucked up payment for all the _favours_ he'd provided moot. Either Ezio is somehow capable of turning himself on and off at will – or he's into it. And honestly, it's Ezio. What isn't he into?

Desmond watches, mouth watering, as the man kicks off his boots and stands before him, completely, gloriously nude. With shaking fingers Desmond quickly gets rid of his hidden blades, then wrenches the last pieces of the armour off – but it's too slow, it doesn't even matter, he has his hands free and he has to touch, now, he has to touch all over. Actually, no, he needs to get his mouth on the man, and he needs it now.

Ezio looks at him in amusement and then lets out a quizzical noise as Desmond slides down from the bed and onto his knees on the floor. "I just, gotta," Desmond says, grabs Ezio by his hips and manoeuvres him to the bed. Ezio goes down with a slight noise of objection which ends in a shocked little gasp as Desmond spreads his knees and shuffles his way in between them.

Then he gets his mouth on Ezio and fuck, _yes_ , Ezio is fucking _vocal_ in his appreciation.

" _Well_ now," Ezio groans, slightly breathless, as Desmond swallows and takes him down. "Oh – you are _very_ enthusiastic, aren't you, my dear –"

Fuck, his _voice_. Desmond is starting to see how Ezio can literally just murmur people into his bed – with that voice he could probably seduce fucking _rocks_. Desmond moans, stroking his hands over Ezio's legs, hips, everything he can reach, and then gets to work, properly and with nearly vicious hunger.

"Y-yes, like that, oh yes, _like that_ ," Ezio groans and reaches to run his fingers over Desmond's hair, up and down and over, stretching at his scalp, not pushing or prodding or holding, just touching, a lot. It's driving Desmond mad. "You are doing well, darling, it is perfect, just like that – "

Blindly, Desmond pushes at Ezio's waist until the man complies with a moan, lying down on his back with his legs hanging over the edge of the bed. Desmond runs his hands over the man's torso blindly, greedily sinking his fingers into his chest hair before checking his bandage on his way down before shuffling closer. Ezio hums and tries to thrust up to him, so Desmond pins him down with his hands – and then he goes to town on him, sucking, licking, bobbing his head and putting his all to it until Ezio's murmured endearments break into breathless moans. Under Desmond's hands the Master Assassin breaks into sweat and, _fuck,_ it's good.

The _noise_ Ezio makes as Desmond works him to the edge and then pulls away is delicious.

"Don't you _dare_ –" Ezio grouses, his hips trying to work up but Desmond holds him down, licking his lips. "My love, my _darling_ , don't do this to me now –"

"Fuck, you sound _divine_ ," Desmond groans against the man's hip and Ezio shudders under him, trying to push himself up onto his elbows but then falling back down with a bitten off gasp, grasping at the bandage. Desmond looks up at him and then stands up, holding one hand at Ezio's hip and then putting the other on the man's shoulder to keep him down.

"Know how much you can handle, hm?" Desmond hums, flexing his fingers and groping without shame. Ezio's gone all hot and glowing under him, his skin gleaming in the dim light. It's more intoxicating than wine.

Ezio groans, one hand resting on the bandage. "Have mercy," he says and laughs. "Wounded or not, don't leave me like this."

"I don't intend to," Desmond murmurs, drinking in the visual greedily. The only thing that would make it better if Ezio was still wearing his robes and all messed up, a full on feast of debauchery. Maybe one day. "Back up, will you?"

"Take off your armour first," Ezio says.

"So that you can steal it?"

"No, so that I can see you and have you without metal digging into my flesh," Ezio says and reaches out to tug at the lapels of the black robe. "Take it off."

Desmond narrows his eyes but stands up. Ezio blows out a breath, running a hand over his loose hair – then he shuffles back on the bed, wincing a little and bracing his wounded side as he collapses down on one elbow.

Desmond gives him a look. "Are you _sure_ –"

Ezio glares at him heatedly.

"Seriously, this isn't going to help you recover faster," Desmond says but pushes the black robe of the Armour of Altaïr over his shoulders and lets it drop to the floor, where it joins Ezio's previously discarded robes.

"Ha!" Ezio says, triumphant. "You're the one to talk; you're wounded yourself."

Desmond looks down – oh yeah. Rocking back on the balls of his feet, Desmond tugs at the bandage around his own waist – his is a lot dirtier than Ezio's, which is probably not a good look. He hadn't bothered to change it… mostly because he kept forgetting it was even there. Funny thing though – they kind of ended up matching there.

Curious, Desmond tugs at the bandage to check at the wound.

"How were you injured?" Ezio asks, leaning his elbows against the pillows as he lies down, confidently sprawled out in the middle of the bed like king on his throne.

"Bullet in Monteriggioni," Desmond admits and starts unwinding the bandage. "It was just a graze, through, nowhere as bad as what you got."

"Hmm," Ezio answers, his eyes low lidded as he traces them over Desmond's hands, working at the bandage. His eyes narrow slightly as the bandage falls off to reveal skin. "Ah," he says and swallows.

Desmond trails his fingers over where the wound should be but isn't and then shrugs his shoulders and gets his shoes off, and then his greaves. Ezio watches him the whole time, thoughtfully, eying his arms, his hands – tracing them down to where they grip at the waist of his jeans to work a button open.

"Those are interesting fastenings on your breeches," the man murmurs and clears his throat.

"Aren't they?" Desmond asks, not really feeling like spiralling down some wild and wacky explanation about the future technology of zippers. He just gets the jeans off, shimmies out of his underwear and then he too is naked. "There," he says, and spreads his arms. "Better?"

"Hmm," Ezio smiles, his eyes heated. "Well then?" he asks, and props one knee up. His dick, Desmond is pleased to see, is still hard, a bead of precum leaking to the hair on his lower belly.

"Well then," Desmond repeats and tilts his head. Yeah. " _Well_." He kind of wants to suck that beautiful cock off, but he also really, really wants to fuck the man. Choices, choices.

Ezio blows out a breath. "Well, come _here_ already," he says impatiently.

"In a moment," Desmond says and tugs at one of their belts with his foot, lifting it up with his toes. Ezio lets out a impatient, amused huff and waits as Desmond rummages through his pouches and – of course there is oil, _of course_ there is. Ezio Auditore, ladies and gentlemen.

Desmond arches his brows at the man, lifting the pot. It's half used too. Ezio hums, amused. "Thinking you can mount a Master Assassin?" he asks, his lids even lower and his eyes _hot_. "A prospect that excites and frightens many, I assure you."

"I bet it does," Desmond answers, lobbing the little pot of oil at him. Ezio catches it almost lazily, never looking away from him. "I'm thinking that the Master Assassin has a big old stomach wound, though, so I'm going to ride him instead."

"Oh, such altruism, how unexpected," Ezio says and smiles, letting his knee drop back down as Desmond gets on the bed, climbing over him on hands and knees. "Come then, come here and let me have you," Ezio murmurs, leaning up as Desmond leans down. "Darling, I will be _ever_ so gentle."

Desmond hums and kisses him, open mouthed and greedy. "Fuck that," he murmurs. "I'm going to ride you through the mattress."

Ezio shudders and then chuckles deep and low in his throat, opening the pot and sticking his fingers in the oil inside – it's pretty obviously olive oil, judging by the smell. Desmond's definitely not complaining, humming and shuffling a little closer until Ezio can get his wet fingers where he needs to.

Ezio circles his pucker once curiously and then makes an inquisitive noise, tugging at Desmond's lower lip with his mouth and then pulling back to watch as he pushes first finger in. It's a little hesitant, which is interesting. Ezio's eyes are carefully flickering between Desmond's eyes and then glancing downwards. Watching oh so carefully.

Not as much experience with men as women? Ezio did kind of seem… pretty much hundred percent heterosexual before this, actually. The guy definitely has been with a man before, this would be hell of a lot more awkward than it is if he hadn't. Still, he's a bit hesitant and it's kind of… cute. Wonder if the guy's been ever fucked? Judging by what he said before, maybe… and maybe he didn't like it much. Hmm…

Desmond shifts his weight and then bears down on Ezio's finger, watching the man blink with surprise as he takes it down to the knuckle in one slick slide. Inside, Ezio's finger stays very carefully still "There's a trick to it," Desmond murmurs, leaning down until his forehead rests against Ezio's, rolling his hip. "The muscles inside are kinda – meant to go one way, so if you push _down_ – ah – it goes in easier."

"I see," Ezio breathes, and kisses him, open mouthed and wet, flexing his finger so very carefully and then slowly pulling it out. He waits until Desmond is bearing down again and only then pushes it back in, watching him carefully. Quick learner in bed, this one. Of course he is.

"Okay, okay, now," Desmond groans and draws a breath. "Crook your finger a bit?"

"Hm?" Ezio asks, nuzzling at his cheek.

"Crook your finger, just a little. More than that – there, hold – hold ther –" Desmond gyrates his hips down and then throws his head back, gasping. "Oh, fuck, _yeah_ –"

Ezio watches him and crooks his finger again, slow, taking in his reaction and then adding a little back and forth movement to it – learning at a record breaking speed until he's fucking Desmond _beautifully_ with his finger.

"Another?" Ezio asks hotly, his other hand creeping for Desmond's dick.

Desmond grabs his hand and pins it to the bed, making Ezio jerk a little. "Don't – don't wanna come yet – but yes, more, please," Desmond groans, pushing back and then keening as Ezio adds in another finger. "Yeaaah…"

Ezio gets into it, oh, shit, does he get into it. Desmond's legs feel like jelly by the time he feels like he's plenty slick and open – and then he has to reach down and get Ezio's fingers out of him, because the man has obviously decided he likes this new bed activity and needs to learn more about it.

"Enough, enough, fuck," Desmond groans and pins Ezio's both hands down, shuddering and leaning his forehead on the man's shoulder, gasping for breath.

"Oh, but I like how you squirm, darling mine," Ezio murmurs hotly, flexing his hips a little and dragging his hard dick against Desmond's thigh. " I believe I could bring you to completion like this. You seem to so enjoy it."

"I'd like to enjoy your dick up my ass now," Desmond groans and stretches his back a little. Ezio nearly fingered him _sore_ , fuck. Not quite enough lube, but he's not complaining, fuck, he's not complaining at all. "Where did that pot go?"

"It's under my shoulder," Ezio says, laughing a little and watching him with a look of fond desire as Desmond releases him enough to get the pot. Ezio winces a little at the touch of cool oil on his dick, but says nothing as Desmond tugs at him couple of times to get him coated all over. Then, with Ezio appreciatively running his hands along Desmond's sides and hips and thighs, he moves over the man, angling his ass just so.

Desmond has a moment, just a moment, where he appreciates how fucked up this whole thing is. Ezio is… _Ezio,_ after all. And Desmond is Desmond. And it's just… yeah, fucked up.

Then he straightens up, standing up on his knees and reaching down to angle Ezio just right. To the man's credit, he holds patiently still as Desmond rubs the head of his dick against his ass, enjoying the feel of it, the threat of the stretch before penetration. Ezio is watching him, though, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide in the dim light, sweat on his brow and glow of sex all over him.

So gloriously fucked up.

Desmond leans his head back and sinks down with a sigh, welcoming the stretch and the burn greedily. Ezio lets out a hiss through his teeth and his stomach muscles tense under the bandages, his whole body straining to stay still for him – fucking _beautiful_. Desmond draws a breath and sinks down, down, all the way down.

It's not the biggest dick he's ever taken, but it's been a while – Ezio feels fucking massive. He also missed Desmond's prostate completely, but that's sex for you.

"Stay still," Desmond orders, grinding his hips down while Ezio groans, throwing his head back. Desmond grins at him, breathless. "Stay very, very still."

"Whatever you want, my darling, only _move_ ," Ezio gasps, gripping at Desmond's thighs but holding still. There are veins standing up on his neck and Desmond can see every flex of muscle and sinew, and it looks fucking _delicious_.

Desmond rises, luxuriating in the drag inside and then leans back a little, grinning as Ezio looks down his body, as his fingers clench. Then, with Ezio watching very closely, Desmond starts fucking himself on the man's dick, slow at first, searching for the right angle, the right rhythm, aiming Ezio until he has him right where he wants him. Up and down, slowly, slowly…

Ezio groans, low and frustrated – and yet holding so carefully still. "Desmond –" he breathes needily. "Fuck – love, darling, _please_."

Desmond drops his weight on him, hard. "Yeah, _yeah_ ," he gasps, bouncing a little and grinding down again. "Come on, come on, move, Ezio – fuck me."

"You only have to ask," Ezio sighs, grips his hips in a hold like a vice – and then Desmond is, quite literally, screwed. The man obviously was paying attention the whole time, because he does not miss Desmond's prostate, not once, nailing it with lethal precision. A few thrusts in, Desmond knows he's in for the ride of his fucking life.

And oh glory hallelujah, there's finally something positive that comes out of all the Precursor bullshit.

Ezio has the stamina of a fucking _beast_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, sup?
> 
> It's so weird to write Ezio spouting endearments in *English*. I refuse to entertain the whole thing of Italian man already speaking Italian doing some sort of weird Italianception and speaking *extra* Italian on top of that, but damn. "My love" just doesn't have the same ring as "amore mio" coming from Ezio's lips.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hints of smut

Desmond kind of expected to wake up alone. He also expected to wake up to find that Ezio has absconded with his armour – it is, after all, the best armour made, quite possibly ever. Desmond wouldn't even blame Ezio for stealing it, honestly. If he was in the man's shoes, he'd definitely be tempted.

It doesn't happen, though. Instead of finding himself left cold by Ezio slinking away in the dead of the night, he wakes up to a hand trailing down his shoulder and arm, down to his wrist. Ezio is still there, propped up on one elbow, examining the damage.

"Mmm?" Desmond hums, opening one eye and peering up at the man. Ezio's hair is still down. " _Mmm_."

"Good morning," Ezio says, his voice a low rumble, not looking up from Desmond's right hand. "Sun is not up yet."

Desmond blinks and runs the fingers of his left hand over his eyes before looking down. Ezio is trailing his fingers down his palm, spreading out his own fingers. Judging by the tingling on Desmond's left arm, the tattoo there had gotten a similar close examination.

Ezio's fingers look odd against the colourless skin. Very human.

"Morning," Desmond says and spreads his fingers out under Ezio's hand. "Didn't steal my armour after all. I'm pleasantly surprised."

Ezio smiles, pressing his palm against Desmond's and then looking up to his face. "I was tempted, but the gain would not be worth the cost," he says. "I'd rather have your favour than your armour."

Desmond blinks and then Ezio reaches forward to kiss him, one hand trailing across Desmond chest. Desmond reaches for him in turn and stops, surprised, when his fingers encounter skin, and not bandages. "Your stomach –" he murmurs.

"I told you, pleasure is quite the remedy," Ezio purrs and takes his hand, lifting it to where the wound should be, and isn't – there's just a scar there now, even the scab that must've been there is gone.

"What – seriously? What are you, an incubus?" Desmond asks, confused and weirdly thrilled, tracing his fingers around to Ezio's back and – yeah, just a scar there too.

"It has been suggested," Ezio chuckles, and pulls away from his lips. "I have always healed the quickest when enjoying myself. Is it not the same for you?"

"To be honest, I don't really go for sex when injured, it just seems a bit counterintuitive," Desmond says with a frown, tracing old scars on Ezio's body and wondering. True enough, he's seen and felt Ezio take a lot of beating over the years – and walk away from it soon after, but seriously? What did he do then, go have a quick healing wank in a corner somewhere?

Ezio takes his right hand and entwines their fingers, looking at them. "For you to have had sex before and enough to have experience in it… being embodied is not new to you," he says. "You were not simply conjured into existence at Monteriggioni."

Desmond looks up at him. "Ezio, did you have sex with me just to see if I was all man shaped under my clothes?" he demands, flat and amused all at once.

Ezio grins. "You looked like you wished to feast upon me, it was very flattering," he says. "That is why. Though I can't deny I was curious," he admits and kisses Desmond's colourless fingers. "Will you tell me what this is?"

"It's a hand," Desmond answers.

"Darling, _please_."

Christ. "Don't you want to know about the tattoo first?"

"A visage of Minerva upon your skin is hardly incomprehensible, one might even say it's expected – this is something else," Ezio says and kisses his knuckles again.

Desmond frowns and lifts his left arm, looking at the tattoo. It is so not Minerva's face. It's just a cover-up of a really stupid ass decision he'd made when eighteen and high on his freedom – he'd gotten the Brotherhood mark tattooed on his arm as a sort of fuck you to everything he ran away from – and then realised what a colossally bad idea that was and covered it up. The fact that the cover up ended up being a female face has nothing to do with Minerva.

Desmond tilts his head. It does have a sort of Egyptian eagle motiv going on. And the face looks smug. And a bit… familiar.

"My dearest," Ezio says. "If you do not wish to say, I will not ask again, but you have to admit... this is not normal."

Desmond let's his left arm drop. "Fucking Precursor bullshit," he mutters and looks at Ezio. Then, a bit dismayed about having to finally acknowledge the fucking thing, he looks at his right arm.

He still doesn't have a word for the colour. It's like white and black at the same time, without being grey – when you look at it from the corner of the eye, it seems to sort of flicker and only settles either black or white when looked at, except no, not really, it's not quite right even so. A sort of Schrödinger's colour. Against it Ezio's fingers, healthy and whole and very human, look vulnerable.

"I touched something Minerva built," Desmond admits quietly. "I think part of it got into me. Or maybe my hand is still there in some way, still touching the thing. I don't know."

Ezio frowns. "Is it dangerous?" he asks quietly.

"I wouldn't call it safe," Desmond admits and squeezes his fingers around Ezio's. "It's not going to hurt you. I'm not going to let it." The fuck it's doing to Desmond, though, is neither here nor there.

Ezio hums, trailing his lips over Desmond's fingers before leaning in to kiss him. Desmond closes his eyes, humming. Morning breath, hmm...

"Explain it to me, darling," Ezio breathes against his lips. "Tell me everything."

"You really don't have to use sex to interrogate me," Desmond mumbles. "I would tell you without it –"

Ezio grins. "But this way is much more pleasurable," he says and pushes closer, leaning his elbow to the pillow under Desmond's head. "We can enjoy ourselves and learn new things, it will be lovely."

"No one ever told you not to mix business with pleasure, huh," Desmond says and sighs as Ezio leans down to trace his teeth over his earlobe. Fuck it, okay. "What – what do you want to know?"

"Everything," Ezio purrs.

"That covers a lot – pick something to start with."

"Minerva then."

Desmond breaths and tilts his head away to give the man now room. "Okay – Minerva. She was a scientist, a bit like Leonardo – one of three scientist who worked together to try and stop the end of the world…"

* * *

 

Maybe it's like placebo thing, Desmond muses in a sleepy, sated haze. He's always healed the fastest when he just ignores a wound or pretends it's not there – by the time he pays attention to it, he's usually better. For Ezio, is sorta the same maybe, except he covers his pain with pleasure until there's just no pain left. With all the crap in their dna, all the weird creepy powers it gives them, healing through the power of willful self delusion is kind nice as side effects go.

Granted, before this Desmond still at least _scarred_ like a normal human being, but let's not think about that. Ezio is definitely all better now, though. He literally fucked himself healthy. Desmond is happy for him, but how is that even _fair_?

"Anything else you want to know?" Desmond asks, rubbing a hand over Ezio's arm.

"I would love to, but I don't think either of us has the time," Ezio murmurs and presses a kiss on his shoulder. "It's morning, and I believe we have work to do."

"Mmm, do we have to?"

Ezio chuckles, kisses him again and gets up. Desmond rolls to his back to watch as the man stretches, naked as the day he was born, his hair trailing lose over his bare shoulders. And, yeah, his shoulders and back looks even more amazing from behind, nice.

Ezio crouches by the chest which Desmond had just sort of left in the middle of the room, and opens it. The gleam of gold and silver seems to almost light up the shadowed bedroom.

"This is quite the fortune you've brought me," Ezio murmurs, digging his fingers in and taking a handful of coins.

"Mmhmm," Desmond agrees, leaning his cheek to his arm and not getting up yet. "You're welcome."

"And you want nothing in return, my dear?" Ezio asks, looking up.

"I'd say I accept sexual favours as payment, but I'm afraid you might take it seriously," Desmond yawns. "Set up the people of the caravan right, get them homes and shops and maybe induct Fabiola and Margherita into the Brotherhood if they're a good fit and can stomach killing people, and I'll be happy."

"I suspect I can do that, yes," Ezio says. "But do you want nothing, my love? What are you going to do now?"

"Hell if I know," Desmond admits and closes his eyes. "I'm not here willingly and I don't have any plans, no one told me what to do. So I think I'm going to lie here for a while and not do anything at all. I think I've earned a break."

Ezio says nothing for a while, counting out a sum of coins from the chest, judging by the noise, before closing the lid. Then he comes back to the bed. "In that case, I will leave the chest here," he says and leans down, kissing Desmond's cheek. "I have much to do, but I will see you later, yes? Enjoy your leisure, dearest."

"Mmm," Desmond answers, and kisses him blindly. "Don't you dare touch my armour."

Ezio grins. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Desmond still watches closely as the man puts on clothes, pulling his white robes on and binding them at the waist with his elaborate belt. No pouches yet, but Desmond has a feeling that would change today.

"Satisfied?" Ezio asks, tucking his hood down and hiding his face in its shadows.

"You know, I really want to just eat you when you're wearing that," Desmond says conversationally, looking him up and down.

Ezio blinks and then smiles, slow and suggestive. "There will be time for that later, my love," he says and comes to kiss him the last time. "Duty calls."

"Have fun, kill some people," Desmond says and watches him go. Then, after the door closes behind Ezio, he drops his head back down and groans.

"What the fuck am I doing?" he mumbles into the pillow. "Just what the fuck."

As per usual, he has no fucking clue.

Sighing, Desmond closes his eyes and determinately resolves to not think about it too hard. He had a great night, Ezio was great, everything is great and he's just going to lie there and not think about anything for a while. Yeah.

…. but as much as Desmond would like to stay in bed and do nothing all day, it's not quite the same when you don't have anything to do. With no TV to watch, no radio to listen to, no book to read or internet to browse on a phone… he gets bored eventually. Even sleeping gets tiresome when you don't really have to do it anymore.

After a while, Desmond gives up with a groan and sits up in the bed, scratching at his scalp and looking around. All things considered, the room survived the night pretty well. The only mess there is Desmond's armour and gear spread out on the floor and the discarded bandages. Should take care of those, it's just not hygienic to leave then around to fester. And speaking of hygiene, a bath would be nice. Hell, Desmond doesn't even remember the last time he had a bath. Not many bathing opportunities in a cave. The sanctuary under Monteriggioni wasn't much better.

He's totally, shamelessly stalling now.

Desmond sighs, looks up at the ceiling for a moment, and then, sitting with his ankles crossed, he turns his attention to his arm, the fucked up one. Black this time, sort of light eating black that makes it look like a two dimensional flat surface rather than three dimensional object. With a dismayed grimace, Desmond examines it, running his fingers along the inner arm. It has no temperature. When he presses his fingers to the pulse point at the wrist, there's nothing there. Though he can feel the bones under the flesh, the softness of skin, the tight sinews on his wrist, he's not sure they're actually real. He's not sure the arm is real.

It kind of feels like it's pretending to be real.

"Nope, fuck it," he says and gets up. "Fuck this, fuck Juno, fuck everything."

With that decided, he starts pulling his robes back on before setting out to find a bath. And maybe a glove.

* * *

 

Machiavelli is puttering around the hideout when Desmond steps out of Ezio's room and there's no question about whether the man knows what they were doing all night – the _look_ he gives Desmond is pretty damn clear.

"Is there a place here I can wash in?" Desmond asks, ignoring the stink eye he's getting.

Machiavelli considers him, his expression extremely displeased. "The corridor on the left, second door," he says and clasps his hands in front of him, looking Desmond over. "I would ask you some questions before you go."

"Can't promise I'll answer, but go right ahead," Desmond says.

"Who sent you?" Machiavelli asks promptly.

"As far as I know, no one."

"Why are you here?"

"Now that I've delivered the money to Ezio, no idea," Desmond shrugs.

Machiavelli narrows his eyes. "What are you planning to do?"

"I'm going to start with a bath and see how I feel after that."

Machiavelli blows out a breath and lifts his chin a little. "You're not helping your situation by being reticent," he says. "I assure you, you have nothing to fear from me, not as long as you have Ezio's favour – and he seems to already favour you _greatly._  Just tell me the truth."

Desmond looks him over. "What's the point when you won't believe me? You've decided I'm Borgia spy," he says and shrugs. "Anything I say will just confirm your fears one way or the other because that's the bias you're looking proof for and you don't believe in the Precursors."

"Excuse me?"

"Minerva and her lot, the people who made the Apple of Eden," Desmond clarifies.

Machiavelli blinks at that, looking surprised. "I have seen the Apple work with my own eyes," he says. "It's not a matter of belief."

"You didn't care about the warning Ezio was given, or about the Vaults, or about me," Desmond says and shrugs. "What was it, _once our enemies are dead, then we can think about phantoms and vaults and gods._ And then you just rode for Rome."

"How do you know about that?" Machiavelli asks, narrowing his eyes. "Only myself and the Auditore family were present."

"Ezio was there, so I was there," Desmond says and smiles. "And you don't believe a word coming from my mouth, do you? Still think I got this from Mario Auditore."

Machiavelli frowns.

"Yeah," Desmond agrees and nods. "You have fun with that. I'll be heading off to wash, then –"

"Wait – please," Machiavelli says. "I'm – I apologise. I do not believe in ancient gods, no, I don't even believe in the one God and it is hard for me to accept that their actions or warnings have any effect on our lives. And the fortunes you brought are – difficult to accept. I mean no offence."

"Ha," Desmond answers. "You'll probably be relieved to hear that they aren't gods, then, the Precursors. They were people with abilities similar to what Ezio can do and they lived for a long time very long time ago and had time to develop their technology…. but there was nothing divine about any of them. Pretty much the opposite, really, they were kind of terrible."

"And you?" Machiavelli asks. "What precisely are you and what is your part in this?"

Desmond considers how to answer that. "It's hard to explain," he says. "I guess I was the executor of their last will and testament. They left some instructions to be carried out and I'm the one who had to do it."

"And Ezio?"

"The messenger who delivered the will," Desmond says and gives him a look. "It doesn't really matter anymore though. We've both played our parts – Ezio is free to be just a normal everyday human Assassin now." Probably. There's still the Apple to be considered, but eh – they'd burn that bridge when they got to it. Burn Juno on it too.

"You speak of parts to play as it there is a cosmic plan, and then claim that aren't gods, these Precursors of yours," Machiavelli says.

"People can make plans too," Desmond shrugs. "No higher power necessary. It's all done now though – we're free from our duties, so to speak."

Machiavelli considers that for a moment and then shakes his head. "Then why bring the money to Ezio?" he asks then. "And what do you want in return?"

Desmond sighs. He can say _nothing_ all he wants but Machiavelli won't believe it, in his world no one did anything without ulterior motives. There has to be a reason for everything, and if there isn't one that is easily discernible, then there's a hidden one. Fucking difficult man, this one.

What would be a believable motive… sex probably isn't it. Helping Ezio get the Apple back is… problematic. Fighting the Borgia probably isn't believable since he doesn't really care. What's a sort of nonsense Machiavelli might believe…

Fuck it. "I brought it to him because he's Ezio Auditore da Firenze," Desmond says.

"That's not an answer," Machiavelli says in frustration.

"Watch him for couple of days. You'll see, it's the only answer," Desmond says wryly. "Now excuse me, I really do need a bath."

* * *

 

Machiavelli is out by the time Desmond gets done bathing, probably having headed off to shadow Ezio around the town. Desmond takes the opportunity to curiously go through all the rooms in the hideout, checking out those that the Animus hadn't bothered rendering. Most of them are bedrooms and what looks like still empty offices, but there is also a dining room and a kitchen.

Alas, no milk, cream, eggs or strawberries in sight. If there had been, Desmond would've been a bit tempted to try and make a cake. Oh well, maybe one day… if strawberries are even a thing yet. Are they a thing yet? Hmm. Something to check out later maybe, if he still feels like it.

He settles in the armoury for a bit, leafing through some old books there – mostly boring – and then sitting still for a while, imagining the empty room full of people. Animus rendered the recruits occasionally, but they never really did much, just sort of stood around. The armoury has couches and a fireplace and seems like an excellent place for some communal kicking back though. Pity the place is so empty.

Desmond regrets thinking that almost immediately – because it's not much after that, that the recruits arrive.

Ezio, the glorious bastard, had taken his off hand suggestion and made it into reality – and then some. All four of his dungeon raiders plus Margherita join them at the hideout, looking a little wide-eyed and excited.

"I'm never getting rid of you now, am I?" Desmond laments at the sight of them.

"Never ever," Fabiola says with a bright smile and latches onto his arm. "Ser Ezio says that since you're the one who got us going, you may just as well keep us."

"Great, that's just great," Desmond sighs. "Wonderful. Margherita, you still have a chance to get away, are you sure you wanna be here?"

"Yes," she says calmly. "Ser Ezio means to liberate Rome, and if I may I will do what I can to help. I have watched the people of my land being abused long enough."

A noblewoman Assassin. Claudia would either love her or hate her for beating her to the punch.

"Great," Desmond says again and looks all five of them over. Of all of them only Salvatore has any sort of armour and though they all have some sort of weapons, they're not proper Assassin weapons. They all need to be kitted out properly. And from his investigation around the hideout Desmond knows there isn't anything here that will fit most of the women.

They're all looking at him expectantly. Right.

Desmond checks his money pouch. Hmm. Nowhere near enough and he doesn't want to take from the chest… "You know what, the night is still young. Let’s go raid a dungeon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School trip for ducklings


	8. Chapter 8

Ezio slips into the hideout without a sound, listening to the quiet murmur coming from the inside, wondering, thinking. It had been a busy day without a moment's rest, and yet Desmond had not left his thoughts, not for long – his thoughts kept turning back to the hideout, and to the man he'd left in his bed – second guessing his actions, his reactions, fearing he might have stepped into something he could hardly handle.

Inside the hideout, the air is pleasantly cool – the voices are coming from the armour gallery. Ezio can't hear Machiavelli, which is both relieving and concerning – but he can hear the light tones of Desmond, saying something and sounding utterly put upon as he says it. In part curious and part apprehensive, Ezio walks to the doorway leading to the armour gallery.

The man is sitting on a couch by the fire, his lips drawn into a grimace and his eyes hidden under the dark hood – in his lap, there is a woman dressed similarly in a black cowl, with a dark grey gambeson. There are other people around them – three other women and one man. All of them wear black cowls, dark gambesons, dark grey hose, which makes the red sashes on their waists seem darker.

Well, at least they've been kitted up, if nothing else.

"… no, no way, I refuse," Desmond is saying.

"But don't you think we should know?" the woman in his lap – Fabiola – says, her arm wrapped around his hooded head and almost petting the man. "Desmond, you _threw_ Salvatore almost ten yards! I think we should know how far you could throw us."

"It could be important in combat situations," another woman, says. Margherita looks completely different, out of dress and in an Assassin's gear.

"Yes, it would have _tactical_ benefit," Fabiola says, grinning. "What if we get into situation where you need to throw one of us a great distance but we don't know precisely how far you could do it? It might get us killed! Do you want to get us killed?"

"You just want me to toss you around, it has nothing to do with tactics," Desmond says. "Get off me, woman."

"Don't you want to know the limits of your strength?"

"Not particularly, no. Ezio's here, get off me," Desmond says.

"Aww," the woman says. "I see where I rank."

"At the very bottom, yeah. Get off."

Ezio smiles a little, despite himself, while Fabiola slides out of her teacher's lap and Desmond squirms free, tugging at his robes to straighten them. Everyone is looking at Ezio now.

"I see you made their gear in your image," Ezio comments, folding his arms. "White is the traditional Assassin colour, you know."

"White made sense when it helped Altaïr blend in with scholars and knights," Desmond says, coming to him – Ezio lowers his chin a little to hide his swallow. How the man _stalks_. "When more people wore white than not. Here it just makes you stand out."

"He did try to make us wear white," Fabiola says, grinning under her black hood. "But we would _hate_ to try and encroach in your territory, ser Ezio."

 Desmond sighs and shakes his head. "Why did you send all of them here?" he asks almost plaintively. "They're unbearable and I hate them."

"No you don't!"

Ezio smiles a little. "They seemed like an eager bunch and we do need recruits," he says, casting a look over the five recruits, three of whom came from Monteriggioni, none of whom saw him as their lord. There's really no doubting who they follow now, is there? "You seem to have picked well with these ones."

"Given value of the term _picking_ ," Desmond mutters and shakes his head. "They'll do alright," he says and moves around Ezio to leave the room. "How did your day go then? Hopefully better than mine."

Ezio glances at the recruits, who are making themselves comfortable around the fire. Then he moves to follow Desmond. "I used the money you brought me to build us some connections around the city," he says. "It is only the beginning but it's a start."

"Did you visit Rosa in Fiore yet?"

"No, what is that?"

"A brothel," Desmond says and shrugs. "Never mind, you'll see eventually."

Ezio feels a shiver run down his spine but doesn't let it show. "I'll be looking forward to it, then," he says. "I did begin setting up contacts within the thieves' guild in the city – but I suppose you already knew that."

"Hm. In case La Volpe told you about Machiavelli, you don't need to worry – the man isn't a traitor," Desmond says and scratches at his chin thoughtfully, scraping his thumb nail over the scar that cuts across his lips. "Though he doesn't make it easy to defend him, does he? Freaking contrary guy."

"Hmm?" Ezio asks in interest.

"Still thinks I'm a Borgia spy," Desmond says and shrugs. "It's whatever, he will figure it out or he won't, it doesn't really matter to me."

Why would it, indeed? Ezio hums in agreement. "Is Machiavelli here?" he asks.

"I don't think so – he left to shadow you sometime today, haven't seen him since," Desmond says. "Though granted, I spend most of the day in a dungeon."

"A… dungeon?"

"Well, a hideout, I guess – lair of the Followers of Romulus," Desmond says. "I wanted to see the lot back there in action."

"And how were they?"

"Hilariously inept, compared to you," the man says and grins and turns to face Ezio, now that they're in a different room and alone. "But I think they can learn to be decent Assassins, eventually."

"It took me some time to learn, as well," Ezio muses.

"Yeah, I know. Doesn't make it any less funny, though."

Ezio tilts his head a little. Spoken like man with experience and the gleeful enjoyment of a senior watching their junior struggle with what they have already mastered. "You know Assassin's skills as well. How did you learn?" he asks curiously, trying to picture a concept that he cannot quite put into words. Concept where Desmond is not fully formed creature with all of his knowledge and confidence, ready made.

Desmond gives him a look. "From you."

"Ah."

Ezio eyes the man, wondering. He'd said he'd been there always, that he'd been with _Ezio_ since his birth, and… Ezio believes him at his word – yet the reminders make his heart skip a beat. Had Desmond been there, when he carried the bodies of his family to the boat? Had he been there, when Ezio buried them? Had he been there on those dark, cold nights when Ezio sought comfort in a bottle and could not find it? The man drinks with the expertise of one who knows how to drink – did he learn that from Ezio, watching him silently as he mourned in the only way he could afford?

Had Ezio, even in his worst and darkest moments, never been alone after all? He's not sure if he is more disturbed or comforted by the thought. He thinks, darkly, that had Desmond not appeared before him, he might have sought the comfort of drink and death once more, turning his mind to his bloody craft and only to his bloody craft. Does Desmond know?

"What?" Desmond asks.

"I –" no, he cannot ask, he doesn't wish to know. "May I not appreciate?" he asks, to cover his darker thoughts.

Desmond's head jerks a little and then he blushes. "Er."

When Ezio had brought the man to his bed, it was for many reasons and not all of them terribly pleasant – his expectations hadn't been anywhere near reality as to how that encounter had gone. Whatever Desmond is, a man, a god, an ancient – a dragon in human form like Fabiola so amusedly suggested – Ezio did not expect kindness from him, not after all the gifts the man had brought him. Surely, at the price he'd paid, he could take what he wanted to.

Well… he _had_ , only it wasn't what Ezio expected and it was to their mutual enjoyment.

"Hmm," Ezio hums and reaches out to touch Desmond's chin, sliding his fingers over the lightly stubbled skin, slightly darker than his own. Even now the man's desire is blindly obvious – how he leans into it, how his lips part, how his breathing stalls. It's far from the first time someone has reacted so to Ezio's touch, but a creature of this level of strength and power, brought weak kneed at mere touch…

It's enthralling. Sometimes it seems like the man forgets how to be human properly, but here, here he is all flesh and blood and desire.

Ezio smiles. He is still not sure if he's paying tribute here, part of him is, a fearful part that once listened to sermons of priests and believed in heavenly retribution – the part that had quelled and shaken at the word _prophet_ being applied to himself. Desmond, he thought then, must be a god or a spirit, like Minerva, something unfathomable and beyond comprehension. And yet here he is.

Whatever he is, he is in shape of a man leaning eagerly into Ezio's touch, his skin already reddening with pleasure, and it is quite pleasant, to be so openly desired. And maybe he'd fashioned his body in mimicry of Ezio's own, maybe he didn't – it doesn't matter.

It's been a long day, and Desmond is eying him like he wants to eat him. Remembering the man's murmured confession – and Fabiola's ludicrous theories – perhaps quite literally.

"The night grows late," Ezio murmurs. "Will you come to bed with me, my darling?"

"You don't even have to ask," Desmond sighs and leans for him. Ezio smiles, but holds him back by his chin, and Desmond lets him, yielding to his meagre restraint without complaint. "Lead the way, then," the man says, looking him up and down and quite obviously enjoying what he sees. Ezio smiles wider, hooking a finger on Desmond's hood and turning to lead him away.

There is a lot of work ahead. The Apple is still lost and Rome is in shambles, the Borgia reign over it with cruelty and greed. Ezio will have to be the cold Assassin he learned to be, hunting down the Pazzi and taking revenge for his father and brothers. There would be blood and death and pain yet.

He thinks he doesn't mind playing the part of the tribute, every now then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna leave it there. Hope you enjoyed the weird ride of this nonsense fic x3


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